


Tomorrow

by green_andproudofit



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Family, Divorce, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, High School, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Alternating, Past Relationship(s), Separations, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 72,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24965884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_andproudofit/pseuds/green_andproudofit
Summary: When Rachel comes home one day in November, her whole world is turned upside-down. Her life and how she knows it to be will never be the same, and no one knows what lays ahead of them. Together with her big sister and her mother, she has to find her way through the uncertainty of the future.(also posted on fanfiction.net)
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Jesse St. James, Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce, Santana Lopez/Noah Puckerman, past Shelby Corcoran/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> a friend of mine was like post this on ao3 and she didn't let it go so here i am...  
> it's my first Glee fanfiction and i hope you like it. basically it's about Shelby Corcoran and her daughters Rachel and Santana Corcoran and how they deal with everything after they find out that Shelby's husband and Rachel and Santana's dad has been cheating on Shelby for three years. since my parents are still (and i hope always will be) together, i can't guarantee that this is 100% realistic. i'm trying to put myself in their positions and their thoughts and all that but who knows maybe i'm just not that empathetic and this is all bullshit lol.  
> anyway... reviews are always welcome; positive and negative as long as it doesn't end in insults.  
> i'll post the chapters i've already posted on ff.net tomorrow -now i have to get ready for bed (different time zones you guys) which actually means get ready for watching the frozen 2 making of which i've been dying to watch lol.  
> hope you're all staying safe during these uncertain times.  
> wash your hands xo

** Tomorrow **

_By green_andproudofit_

** Chapter 1  
** **Overture**

**Rachel.**

The first thing that I notice when I open the front door to our house on the whateverth of November is that my sister is there. I spot the white sneakers that have been carelessly abandoned in the corner of the hallway and roll my eyes. I put them away because I know that she won't do it -not even if my mother asks her to. It's not that she doesn't want to listen to her, but she just forgets. Cleaning, she always says, is not what I want to do for a living. I don't need to practice it. 

I am a little surprised that she's here, I must admit; she told me just this morning that she'd be in Cheerio practice the whole afternoon. 

I shrug off my coat and scarf and hang them into the closet next to me. 

"I'm home!" I want to shout when I step through the door of the small foyer into the hallway, but the sound of a door slamming shut—or perhaps bare hands slamming against the tabletop—stop me. 

"Are you being serious right now?!"

I wince. I have never heard my mother shout like this. Or screech like this. Or anything like this. She's tough, she raises her voice when she needs to, she knows how to keep control of her voice; she's an actress. A very good actress. Listening to her talk is like listening to a painter paint or a poet rhyme -though that's not really a good metaphor. She has a melodic voice; she can vary it from a soft, high pitch to a rich, low one, she plays with the words as they roll off her tongue; she masters the art of making talking to her something one longs to do. She makes simple sentences like "Good luck" sound like a whole song, and an "I love you" from her lips sends you right into heaven. She makes one word sound intense, sending shivers down your spine, and the next one is not more than a whisper. She keeps her voice in check, her volume, her pitch. She doesn't lose control. 

But then why does it feel like she's not at all in control over her voice right now? She sounds like someone who's been smoking for one hundred years when I know that, as a matter of fact, my mom never once in her life has touched a cigarette. She sounds like someone who's just had to recover from the sound of one thousand forks scarping over a plate. 

She sounds incredibly angry. 

"Are you telling me," I hear her take a deep breath. "That all that time you were _pretending_ " she spits out that word. "To be working your -your _ass off_ to provide us with a wonderful holiday trip for my _birthday_ , when you were- when you were-"

She stops, and I hear her breath hitch. She's trying not to cry. My chest contracts. I don't want my mom to cry. I have never seen her cry, in fact, there was never a reason for her to. 

The muffled response is definitely coming from a male person. But it's, unlike my mother's, too quiet for me to decipher who is talking. 

My thighs are hurting from dance lessons, and although I was planning on going straight into my room, I turn sideways and hurry down the hallway into my sister's room. I don't knock. She never knocks either, and I figure that it's okay. 

"What's going on?" I ask and close the door behind me. I don't say hello, it seems too unimportant.

My sister is sitting on the windowsill, legs drawn close to her chest as she stares out the window. Her black hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She has changed out of her Cheerio uniform into sweatpants and a Carmel High hoodie from our mom. I still don't get how she can be so proud about being at McKinley at school that she never goes there without wearing her Cheerio uniform, but then once she's home, she wears those hoodies like she owns the school that has its logo embroidered on the front. 

Santana turns around to face me. Her cheeks tell me that she's been crying, her eyes tell me that she's been planning out a murder. She's probably been doing both. Her face never lies. Not at home. Not to me. 

"He cheated."

My face falls. I know my sister. I know her too well for her own good. And I know that she was devoting herself to her relationship, to Noah. 

I gasp. "Oh my God, San, I'm so-"

"He cheated on her."

I stop short in my movement. "Wait, what? What are you talking about?"

"That asshole cheated on her," she spits out. 

I still don't understand. My mind is racing a mile a minute; all of Santana's friends (female friends, I mean) have boyfriends. Katie, Brittany, Quinn… but why would she cry? 

"When they've finished talking, I'm going to kill him," Santana hisses. 

I frown. "Wait, San, what is going on? I don't-"

"Dad!" She jumps up from the windowsill and I jump backwards and almost crash into her cupboard. Santana clenches her fists. "Dad cheated on her."

For a second, I want to laugh. My dad is the most amazing dad ever. 

He's an assistant to some kind of brilliant detective, and he knows all the great gangster stories. He took us to his work once, and we met that brilliant detective that he always gushes about; Mr Travers. When we were little, he sometimes climbed into our beds and pretended to fall asleep beside us only to suddenly jump up and tickle us to death. He played with our barbie dolls when we asked him to, and he never complained that we wouldn't let him be Ken. When I come home after a long and exhausting day at school, and I have to run the washer because my clothes are covered in blue and purple slush, and he notices and knows immediately that I don't want to talk about it, he sits me down on the couch and drapes my legs over his and tells me about his day and makes up some story about a stupid criminal that never gets away with what he's doing, and he makes me laugh, and then he holds me and tells me that he loves me. He scoops me up like I'm a baby and carries me all the way upstairs into the master bedroom, and then we watch Funny Girl together, and when my mom comes home, she finds us like that and laughs, though weakly because she immediately knows what's up. 

I love my dad, and my dad loves me, and he loves my sister, and most of all, he loves my mom. 

I know that he does. When he's home before her, he always cooks dinner for all of us, and she always acts surprised just so she can kiss him a little harder than she does normally when my sister and I are around. And when she's home early and cooks dinner, he sneaks up on her from behind her, and wraps his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder so he can kiss her neck, and she giggles like some teenage girl—or like herself, but on drugs—and tells him to stop teasing and make himself useful and set the table, he obeys. Because he loves her so much. And she loves him even more. 

The laugh that was bubbling inside me dies on my lips. Santana is seething in front of me. 

I almost choke on my next words. "N-no."

She nods her head. "Yes."

"No."

"Yes, Rachel."

I watch my trembling fingers move on their own accord to stroke through my hair. "No, that's not true. Dad- he loves her. He loves mom. It's not true, San, it can't be, it-"

"Rachel," Santana presses. "It is true. He cheated on her. That fucking asshole."

My hands stop roaming through my hair. They sink to my sides, and I stare up into Santana's deep brown eyes, and I know the truth. Deep inside, I know it, but my heart is stumbling and stuttering and my mind wheels away from the possibility that my dad has hurt my mom. That he has broken his promise. To her, to me, to Santana, to himself. 

"B-but," my voice cracks. "How could he? He- he loves her. He loves her so much."

Santana crosses her arms in front of her chest to keep her hands from shaking. "Apparently not."

My mind is spiralling around my thoughts—or are my thoughts spiralling around my mind? 

_He did it. He cheated on her._ Says a voice in my mind that is too low to be my own, but too high to be Santana's. 

_No, he didn't. He loves her._ Says another voice. 

_He did._

_He didn't._

The voices in my head are screaming at each other. It isn't helping. 

I close my eyes and try to calm down. It's not working. I've stopped breathing and my fists clench. 

Is this a panic attack? I feel like it is. But then, I never had one, and I don't think I'm the panic-attack-kinda-person. And I'm a chronic diva and theatricality is something that belongs to me like my own mind, and I do tend to overreact at times, I must admit.

"You're not having a panic attack."

I didn't even realise that I spoke those things aloud until Santana raises her voice. 

"I feel like I do," I say. My voice is shaking, and when I pry my eyes open, I realise that Santana is standing right in front of me. 

I feel like a little girl by all sudden, not like a soon-to-be fifteen-year-old. "Why would he do that?" 

It's a stupid question and one that I didn't intend to ask. 

Santana scowls. "You'll have to ask him."

"But how?"

I do not sound like a soon-to-be fifteen-year-old, either. I sound like a child that has just learnt how to talk. 

"He's right out there," says Santana harshly. Her hands are gesturing furiously in front of her. I don't think she can control it. "Go ask him."

I do not move. There's a weight on my chest by all sudden that makes it hard to breathe. No, not hard to breathe. But hard to remember that I need to—that I want to. 

"Are you really going to kill him, San?"

My sister narrows her eyes. "I think Mom will do a much better job."

"Oh shit."

I don't see how Santana raises an eyebrow at me. I never curse. But now, things have changed. I whirl around and yank the door open. When I rush into the hallway, I can hear my mother's voice again. She's crying. 

And suddenly I understand Santana's longing to kill him. I feel the sudden urge to race up the stairs and claw his eyes out for ever even so much as looking at another woman. I love my dad. I love my mom. And right now, I hate my dad on top of that. 

I never really thought about the concept of love and hate before, but right now, as I stand here in the hallway and hear my mother cry upstairs, I suddenly begin to understand something. 

Hate on its own is a very strong emotion. Hate, according to every crime story there is, can lure people into doing something very wrong thinking they're very right just because of their hatred. 

But what the crime stories forget to mention is that hate that used to be love is something much more venomous and much more dangerous. 

And right now, I am impossibly conflicted. I feel like crying because my mother is crying, and my mother isn't supposed to be crying. My mother is supposed to shield me from all the bad in the world, she's supposed to keep me away from anger and sadness and danger and tears, she's supposed to be incredibly strong. And, most importantly, she's supposed to shield herself from all that as well. I feel like screaming because I don't know what else to do. I feel like punching a wall, but that's a thing that Santana would do, not I. I feel like running away. I feel like locking myself in my room, but my room is upstairs next to my mom's study, and I don't think that I could face my dad without killing him. Like, really— _really_ killing him. 

And although I know I shouldn't think like that, I cannot stop myself. In the back of my mind, a memory flares up and tells me ' _Honour thy father and thy mother'_ and ' _Thou shall not murder_ ' and I want to laugh right into God's face and tell him to screw himself and his stupid Ten Commandments because—to hell with it!—I'm half Jewish, but then I remember that, sadly, the Ten Commandments also exist in Judaism and so I'm thinking, screw religion altogether. I don't care if I'll go to hell for that. Not right now.

I know that Santana is standing behind me without her giving a signal. She wraps her arms around me as we listen to our mother's cries. 

"I can't believe it," says mom. Her voice is still loud enough for us to hear, but it's far away from the shouting she did a few minutes ago. 

I want to laugh at that realisation; it feels as though it was hours ago that I arrived at home. 

"I can't believe you would do that to me. To the kids. God, David, _the kids_!" 

"I know."

I hiss at the sound of my father's voice. It used to calm me, to make me feel safe. Those times are over. 

"Do you?" my mother challenges. She still has a strong voice, a demanding one, although it's shaking. "Do you really know what you are doing, David? Do you really know what you are doing to them? What you are doing to me? Because I don't think you do. If you did, you would never have gone off to have an affair and screw another woman behind my back."

My mother never curses. She never swears, she never lashes out, she never insults. Not when she's angry. She sometimes playfully calls my father an idiot and laughs, but nothing else. She is strict about that. Stricter than me. I don't think that so many people would call 'screwing' a curse word, but to my mother it is. To her, everything is a curse word that isn't a nice or at least a somewhat-nice word. So, when my mother uses the word 'screwing', it means she's pissed beyond what we know her to be able to be. 

"Shelbs-"

"Do _not_ 'Shelbs' me on this one, David!" my mother snaps. "You do realise that this is not only about me and you, don't you? You do realise that this has everything to do with our daughters, right?"

There's a pause, and I imagine my mother standing in front of her desk with her arms crossed, slightly bent forwards, piercing my father down with one of her serious-business-looks. I imagine that my father shrinks underneath her look and nods. 

Then, my mother goes on. "Do you remember our wedding vows?"

He probably nods. 

"So, you remember saying that—and I quote _you_ , David—'I will love you and protect you forever'?"

This time, there's no pause to even give my father time to nod.

"And do you remember what you told me the day Santana was born? When we were in that hospital, and I suddenly realised that one day I would have to let her go outside on her own, even though I knew what badness waits out there? Do you remember that?!"

Her voice is getting louder and louder, and I feel Santana's grip tighten on me.

"You said that you would never let anything happen to our children, David! You said that you would protect them from harm, that you would never ever hurt them!" She is yelling at him. I have never heard my mother yell at someone quite like this until today. 

"I know," is my father's quiet response. 

"And what do you think are you doing right now?!" 

Somewhere along those words, my mother's voice cracks, and I know immediately that she is _this close_ to breaking down. Because my mother's voice never cracks. Never ever. And yet, she goes from full force yelling at my father to something between a cry, a groan and a whisper in less than two seconds.

Santana holds me even closer. 

"What did I do wrong?" 

She's crying again. I don't think I have ever in my life felt that helpless.

"What?" asks my father. 

"What did I do wrong?" Mom repeats. "What did I do that made you stop loving me? That made you fall in love with someone else?"

He's in love with someone else?! My head whips up, and my skull misses Santana's nose by a mere two inches. 

"Y-you didn't do anything," says my father. "It just happened."

A sob echoes through the otherwise completely quiet house. I feel like dying. 

"When?" asks my mother and her voice wavers, trying to get a grip on the force in it again, so it can be louder and more demanding. "When did it 'just happen', David?"

The silence that follows her question is so tense that I can literally feel it against my skin. It's a silence that threatens everybody in this house, a silence that tells me that there's something awful to come. 

"Around the time that Santana started at High School."

My mind is racing a mile a minute. When did Santana start High School again? Was it-

"Three years?!" my mother yells. 

She's much better at math than me. 

" _Three years_ , David!" she screeches. "I thought a couple of months, maybe half a year, but-"

She stops. The silence that once again fills the house seems deadly. 

Her next words make something snap inside me. 

"Get out," she says. There's no emotion in her voice—she sounds like a creepy robot of sorts. 

"Wh-?"

"I said: Get out," her voice wavers, but she recovers quickly. "I mean it, David, I don't want you to be here right now. I can't have you here right now."

My father tries to say something—there's a strange noise echoing through the house, but my mother cuts him off. 

"I won't say it again," she says. "Go away. You can pick up your stuff tomorrow when I'm at work. You have one minute to get out of here before I might forget myself."

I hear a chair scrape over the floor, and then there are steps near the staircase. Santana and I are not in the right condition to even think of leaving the hallway. I suddenly realise that neither my mother nor my father knew that either of us is here. They thought we were at school. Still, I cannot bring myself to move just the tiniest centimetre. 

Santana loosens her grip on me when our father slowly comes into view. First, I can only see his legs, then his torso, and finally, his face. He spots us standing on the left side of the room where the hallway to Santana's room starts, and his eyes widen. 

For a moment, he stands completely still. There is a strange noise coming from upstairs—a tearful wail of sorts and then the sound of glass crashing to the ground—that makes me jump in Santana's arms. I twist in her arms to free myself from her grip, but she holds onto me like a lifeline, and I know it isn't because she wants to keep me from clawing our father's eyes out, but because she needs me to be there when she does what she does. 

"Girls," begins our father, and he suddenly sounds more like a 70-year-old than a 43-year-old. He certainly looks ten years older. 

I feel the anger bubbling in my belly, forcing its way up my throat. I never knew I was capable of being so angry with someone I usually love so much. 

"Don't say another word," says Santana. Spits Santana. Every single word seems a bit more venomous than the one before. 

If my father is smart, he's going to let it go. But he doesn't seem to be acting all that smart today. Or in the last three years, as it seems. 

He hesitantly takes a step closer, and it's probably only that hesitation that lingers in his step that stops Santana from jumping at him. 

"Girls, I-"

"Shut up!"

The words echo through the altogether silent house. It takes me a second or two to realise that I was the one who uttered them. On the floor above us, a door opens. Then… nothing. No steps, no yelling. Just silence.

My father's eyes are locking with mine. He pleads me silently, not to hate him. 

I wonder if he's looking at me because he loves me, or because he knows that I might be the easiest one to convince of his innocence. I grew up to be more of a daddy's girl. In the years between my third and my thirteenth birthday, I was my daddy's girl through and through. But then, puberty hit me full force, and suddenly it was my mom's side of the bed that I crawled into at night—out of fear or sadness or pain because God knows that I totally inherited my mother's sensibility in that particular time of the month. It was my mom's arms that I threw myself into when I came home, covered in slushy. But still, I love my dad very much. One day ago—had I been asked—I would've answered that I am a parents' girl. Now, I'm totally devoted to my mom.

"Didn't Mom just ask you to leave?" I say slowly, and surprise myself by the lack of upset in my voice. 

My father steps even closer. 

"Didn't—Mom—just—ask—you—to—leave?!" it's Santana's voice, this time, and she sounds so dangerous that even I feel shivers running down my spine. 

"Girls, I-" he reaches out with one hand. 

"Shut up!"

"Don't touch me!"

Santana and I say at the very same moment. 

It seems to suddenly dawn on my father that he really, totally, and irreversibly screwed up. His shoulders slump. I feel my knees shaking. 

"Mom said you should go," I say. My voice is shaking along with my knees. "You know the way out. Go."

There's a pain in my chest that pushes me down, and I don't know how long I am going to be able to hold myself upright. Not when he's looking at me like that. 

"GO!" yells Santana. She lets go of me and strides towards our father. "I hate you! You ruined this family, you freaking asshole!"

Under normal circumstances, he would never have let her talk to him like this. But then again, under normal circumstances, he would never have cheated on our mother either. 

He doesn't say anything. He just looks at us, one after the other, and sighs, and that makes me so angry that I almost jump at him. 

"Screw you," I mutter. And then, louder: "Screw you, _dad_!"

My father tries to take a step towards us. "Girls, please-"

Santana has been holding my hand until now. But then she lets go, and I almost scream because I think she's going to hit him. Instead, she whirls around and yanks the front door open. "LEAVE!"

I fall to the ground. It's like my legs suddenly forgot how to work, and they fold underneath me. 

My father leaves. I watch him leave through the front door, and then the front door gets closed by my sister, and I didn't even realise I was crying until she crouches down before me and tries to wipe my tears away. My shoulders are shaking so hard that it makes my whole body shake along with them. 

She holds me for a while and then she hauls me up into her arms and we sit down together at the kitchen table. From there, we can see the door to our mother's study. It's opened, and from time to time, a long shadow falls through the door into the hallway. Our mother is pacing. She rarely paces. And she never paces for longer than a minute, but still, we find ourselves sitting there, watching her shadow disappear and reappear for at least a quarter of an hour before she eventually stops the pacing and comes downstairs. 

She pretends to be okay for about two seconds. Then, I shoot up from my seat and crash into her body, and she folds me into her arms and cries. And it's such a heart-wrenching sound that I can't help but cry along with her. 

"Fuck him," I hear Santana say. "Fuck him."

And my mother doesn't even have the energy to scold her for the cursing anymore. 


	2. Footsteps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is the same-titled song by Olly Murs

** Chapter 2  
** **Footsteps**

**Rachel.**

What my mother totally forgot when she was screaming at our father is that the next day is a Saturday. Which means, she won't be at work while he comes to get his stuff. She tries not to let it show when she realises her mistake, but Santana and I can totally see through that brave face she's put on. She is crumbling at the mere thought of having to face our father. I realise that it must be at least twice as hard for her as it is for us. Because she loves him so much. And up until today—or is it still today? I roll over in my bed to glance at my phone—she believed that he loved her just as much. She was relying on him in a way that I cannot understand. I hope that one day I will, but then I have to think of the way she cried when she found out that relying on him had been a mistake, and I think that maybe I don't want to understand it. Ever. 

My mother is so hurt that one can sense it the moment she walks into the room. She carries around a sadness, an exasperation, and exhaustion, and _pain_ that follows her everywhere she goes. 

Not that she's been going so much, this evening. She went back into her study and left the door open to calm us down a bit—Santana and I were fifty-percent sure that she might kill herself—she certainly looked that way—and stayed there the whole evening. 

She tries not to let it on but was crying all that time. Perhaps she was drinking, too. My mother never drinks. But then, she never cries either, so, while we're on it, why not do all the things she never does? 

I think of how much my mother has given up—for my sister and me, for my father. For the life we're living. Or were living. It seems very uncertain and in-the-dark at this moment. 

My mother is a part-time actress and part-time teacher. She teaches English and Music and somewhere along the road, she picked up History as well. She's a no-nonsense teacher at Carmel High, a teacher that freshman students fear and senior students fear even more. But the senior students also love her. Because she understands them and their longing for a life after High School. She's also a well-respected teacher, a looked-up-to teacher. Because when she's not seen at Carmel High for an indefinite period of time, she's either on stage or onset. Though she hasn't been seen on stage for some years now. As a young woman, she stormed Broadway like a whirlwind of power and talent. It earned her a Tony. For almost six years, she did eight shows a week almost every week. And then, she met my father. He was at the stage door because he had gotten lost in the middle of the night. And, according to my mother, it was love at first sight. They got married, and one year later, she was pregnant with Santana and decided to go to college once more. To get a teacher's degree. "Broadway," she said when I once asked her. "Is a very uncertain business and I couldn't have ensured a steady income and always having a place to work."

So, she retired from Broadway. But then, two years later, when she was pregnant with me, Disney asked her to play a part in an upcoming movie. She accepted. The movie won an Oscar, and my mother could do whatever she wanted; she could've chosen any show on Broadway, and they would've been glad to have her. She could've chosen any movie, and they would've seriously considered her. Instead, she chose teaching. 

Shelby Corcoran disappeared from the stage and the screen for almost ten years before she had a comeback in another movie. And then another, and another. In terms of money, she could stop teaching, but she loves it too much. 

My mother gave up Broadway for us. For Santana and me and my father. And my father repays her by cheating on her and breaking her heart. Because, although she's trying to hide it, I can tell that that's what she has; a broken heart. 

I toss and turn in my bed and throw another glance at my phone. It's half-past three o'clock. I want to fall asleep at last, but my mind isn't calming down. Every time I close my eyes, I see my father in front of me, pleading me to understand. Every time I close my eyes, I feel my anger rising. 

At precisely 4:41, I shoot up from my bed. 

Sleep is never going to come. Perhaps, I think bitterly, this is God's repayment for my screwing his Ten Commandments. I want to laugh. I'm by no means a religious person. I was raised half Christian, half Jewish, but I practice neither. But sometimes I find my mind slipping into old habits. Or habits that I actually never picked up. 

I have a sudden urge to run. To run until my lungs collapse in my chest, until my legs throb even more than they already do, and until I forget about anything and everything. I wish my room was on the ground floor like Santana's because that way I could've simply climbed out of the window. But my room is on the second floor, and if I tried to walk out the front door, I would set off the alarm, and my mother and my sister would probably die from a heart attack. 

So for now, I'm stuck in here. Though not in my room, but in the house. I slip into the hallway and begin to make my way downstairs. The house is so dark that I can't see what's more than half a meter away from me, but I know my home pretty well. I don't need the lights on to navigate my way downstairs. Downstairs is where I start my pacing. I pace back and forth like my mother did yesterday, and I actually find it quite helpful. 

Santana sleeps like rocks; not even a full-on earthquake could wake that girl in the middle of the night. But my mother is a light sleeper and, much like myself, she starts up from her sleep at the smallest of noises. So, I pace downstairs for a while until my thighs hurt so badly that I almost have to crawl up the stairs again. My legs are sore from the dance lessons I had yesterday. My coach is preparing us for an upcoming recital, and I feel like she's only waiting for one of us to cave. She's that kind of coach that likes to see her students cave. But she's also the best dance coach in Lima, Ohio and so, I have to go with her moods. 

When I reach the top landing, I let a groan slip out. The door to my mother's study is opened, and I have to think of the crash that sounded in here yesterday. My curiosity gets the best of me, and before I can even reconsider, I find myself in the middle of her study. I do not intend on staying longer; I know that my mother doesn't necessarily like someone snooping around in here. I turn on the light and blink against the brightness. There, in the back of the room, shards of glass are spread on the wooden floor. It was a glass, I realise. I turn around to look for more evidence of my mother's short-lived breakdown in here, but there is none.

So, I leave the room again and turn off the light. My footsteps are almost inaudible as I tiptoe down the corridor and shudder to a halt in front of my door. 

I don't go inside. Instead, I stare at the glittering letters that are pinned to it. ' _Rachel_ '. It was my father's idea. We spent an entire afternoon buying beautiful paper in the mall and cutting out the letters. It was fun, but now I feel a whole new feeling wash over me as I look at them. It's not hatred; it's not disappointment. Instead, it's pain. And a pain so sharp that it makes me gasp. It's sudden, and it's quick, and I don't even know how I can keep breathing. I want to scream so badly that it's hurting me even more. Tears are welling up in my eyes, and there's so much anger in me that I don't know what to do. I raise a hand to my mouth and bite down onto my knuckles. It helps. It helps to keep the tears from falling and the anger from boiling and the unshared scream from hurting. 

"Rachel."

I start. I almost share the scream. My mother is standing right behind me, a hand sinking down onto my shoulder, the other rising to cup my cheek. 

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice sounds so… so defeated. Perhaps it's just the drowsiness of sleep, I tell myself. I realise that she is still looking at me with her pupils dilated. She doesn't miss the way my breath hitches every now and then. 

"I can't fall asleep," I say, and my voice doesn't sound much better than hers. 

Tears are shining in her eyes, and it makes me feel even worse. 

"Me neither," she says quietly. Her fingers find my hair, and she strokes through it before tucking it behind my ears. "Come on."

She takes my hand and leads me away from my room and down the corridor into her room. I suddenly realise that she's never been in here alone. Not at night. She probably never slept in this bed alone ever since she and my father got married; there was always someone on the other side of the bed. And this someone broke her heart and betrayed her trust and played house for three years with her while screwing someone else behind her back—loving someone else behind her back. 

She stands right behind me and takes hold of both my arms, guiding me towards the bed. She can feel my breath shuddering through my entire body, I think, and she gently rubs my shoulder. 

She doesn't say a word as she climbs into the bed and leans against the bedstead. She tucks me in and holds me close and rests her chin on the crown of my head. Whilst my breathing is shuddering, hers is shaking. She places a kiss into my hair and holds me even closer. 

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

Her voice still hasn't lost its melody, but it's flat now. Somehow, that scares me even more than the tears that I saw shimmering in her eyes minutes ago. 

I don't remember what I wanted to say. It's like someone has just turned off the lights in my head. So, I settle on something that I now find I've said far too less in the past. 

"I love you."

Her shaking breath strokes over my head. "I love you too, Rachel."

* * *

I don't sleep at all that night, and neither does my mother. We just sit there and hold each other, and from time to time, my mom sighs, and she stops running her fingers through my hair to kiss my head. Sometime around half past six in the morning, she gets up to make coffee, and when she returns, Santana follows her into the room. She looks just as tired and exhausted as we do, but the quiet 'morning' she murmurs into the pillow when she drops onto the bed tells me that she has slept. 

Mom makes me scooch over, and she hands me two cups of coffee while she settles in beside me. Then she takes one of the mugs from my hands and dips her nose into the liquid. A small moan escapes her lips, and Santana chuckles a little. It's not a full-on laugh, but it's something. 

"Mom?" says Santana when she hauls herself half-upright to sit next to me. "What are you going to do now?"

It's a question that's been whirling through my mind all morning; what was our mom going to do? A life without my father seemed unimaginable to me. So, it must feel unbearable to Mom. 

Mom sighs deeply. 

"I don't know, Santana," she says after a while. "I really don't know."

We keep it at that; no more questions about the future—or the past, or the present—and no questions about our father. 

Not even when there's one question burning on the tip of my tongue. How did Mom find out? I do not ask her. She looks exhausted enough as it is; I don't need to burden her even more. 

When Mom leaves to make another cup of coffee for herself (she never lets me drink more than one cup—for reasons unknown to me), I find my sister staring at me. 

Santana and I couldn't be more different. And that's not only because of our looks. Whilst I look like the spitting image of our mom, Santana has inherited more from our dad. She looks a lot like his mom, a proud Spaniard with black hair and full lips, and she has our father's eyes. Noah, her boyfriend, always insists that she's the only Jewish Latina in the entire world and she always rolls her eyes at him. 

Santana is fierce and has a hot temper and a healthy sense of curiosity. She's my big sister, and she acts that way; always trying to protect me. 

The biggest difference between us, though, is our status at school. Santana is a Cheerio and therefore, one of the most popular girls at school. I am in the Glee Club, and that means ultimately that I'm at the very lowest point of the social ladder at McKinley High. Not even Santana can change that. She's popular and loved and admired. I'm laughed at and frowned upon. 

And yet, we always hold together. There was never a point in my life that I couldn't have run to my big sister for support—there was never a point in my life that she wasn't there for me, ever. 

Santana is my big sister, and I love her like I love nobody else. Except maybe my mom. And my dad. But that's a thought that I push out of my mind as soon as I sense it coming up. Right now, I couldn't love my dad any less. 

Now that I feel Santana's eyes on me and I turn around to face her, I suddenly realise that being the big sister also means being much more on your own with everything. I realise that being the big sister means sacrifices and duty, and I realise that it might be a burden from time to time. 

Santana is crying. I don't even know why—though at the same time, I absolutely know why. Unlike me, Santana cries silently. There's nothing indicating her crying than the tears that stream down her face; there's not even a change in her breathing. While my breathing always seems to be going crazy when I cry.

She looks at me like a lost puppy searching for a new home, and my heart breaks a little more. We fall into each other's arms a second later. I hope she doesn't notice that I'm crying too. When I cried yesterday, she had to pull herself together so she could help me. I want to return the favour, but the tears keep coming. 

It's how our mom finds us minutes later. I hear the steps that near the bedroom and then she stands there in the hallway, and she almost loses her grip on her coffee cup as her hands twitch to cover her mouth and muffle her gasp.

"Oh, girls," she says, and her voice wavers. She puts the cup aside and hurries to the bed where she sits down and pulls us into her arms. 

She rocks back and forth like one would do with a baby in their arms, and I snuggle into her embrace. The softness of her skin against my cheek has never seemed safer and more protecting. There's something about the way that she hugs that makes me never want to let go. I want her to hold me forever, even though she's crying. 

My head almost whips up at that. I'm not used to seeing my mother cry, and it makes my heart clench. I hate to see her cry, and I hate that there's nothing I could do to make this better. My mom is crying silently like Santana, but her breath hitches every now and then, and by the way I feel Santana's body stiffen beside me, I know that she knows as well that mom is crying.

"We're going to be okay," gasps Mom. She sounds more like she's trying to convince herself, not us. "We're going to be just fine."

I have no doubt that Santana and I are going to be fine. Some time in our life, we're going to be fine again, with a husband and children on our own. It is my mom that I'm worried about. Because I'm not sure, she will ever be anywhere near fine again. 

I remember the time that my mom told me she and Dad were soulmates. I totally missed the crucial meaning behind her words back then, but I didn't miss the way her eyes were glowing. 

I was just about eight and had a crush on a guy at school that already had a girlfriend—though, of course, the meaning of 'girlfriend' in Primary School is yet to be predefined—and I convinced myself that I would die of heartbreak. My mom found me in her closet that afternoon, and instead of lecturing me on how it was not okay to run off just like that, she sat down beside me and told me that the boy wasn't the one for me. And when I frowned and asked why she would say that, she told me that, one day, I was going to meet someone, and we would look at each other and fall in love right then and there. I asked how she would know, and she said: "I know because that's what happened to your father and I. People call that 'soulmates'."

Not once since that moment have I doubted the rightness of her words. 

And that's why I worry about my mom. Because she believed that, all this time, she and dad were soulmates, and now she knows they aren't. And my mom isn't one for believing in such things as destiny and fate and whatever. She usually scoffs when people start talking about these things. Only the concept of soulmates really got to her, and I believe that she loved to think of herself and dad that way. 

* * *

Around half-past nine in the morning, we drag ourselves into the kitchen to eat breakfast. Neither of us really is in the mood to eat, but my mom forces us—and herself—anyway. We set the table, and I make the mistake of pulling four plates out of the kitchen cabinet. I try to cover it up and yank the door open to shove one plate inside again, but both Santana and Mom noticed. My fingers are trembling when I carry the three remaining plates to the table, and when my eyes lock with Santana's, I almost drop them. Tears are welling up in her eyes, and behind her, my mom looks as though she saw a ghost. 

It feels like he died, I muse silently. But worse. Because if he'd died, we wouldn't be so angry with him, and my mother wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that he doesn't love her, and we would mourn for a few quiet months and maybe one or two years, and eventually, we would move on. It would be hard, but at least, we wouldn't have to hate him like this. It hurts to hate him. 

Sitting at the breakfast table, no one really is in the mood to talk. But I feel like if no one says anything, we're all going to explode soon, so I'm the one that's talking while Santana shoves some fruit and crackers into her mouth and my mom stares at her loaded plate as though she's trying to burn it with her look. 

"So, yesterday at Glee, Mr Schue let us take some songs and rearrange them. You know, mix and mash them up, toss in a few riffs… that sort of thing. And we all did it together, and we danced and everything, and it was really cool. But then Finn tripped because, you know Finn, I mean, he can't even walk a straight line while singing, and he fell into the chairs, and Mr Schue had to escort him to the nurse. He didn't return until the end of practice, but I couldn't linger on to find out because I had dance lessons, and—uhh, dance lessons killed my legs yesterday, so-"

I stop. I've been rambling on and on for quite some time now, but something in my mother's eyes changes just then, and I can't force any more sounds out of my throat. 

Her eyes are trained on something behind me, and although she sat straight before, she sits even straighter now. Her demeanour changes in a matter of seconds. Her lips become a thin line, her brows knit together just the slightest bit, her jaw tightens, and her cheeks seem to be sucked in a little, making her cheekbones even more prominent than usual. 

She looks neither angry nor sad. She looks intimidating but incredibly small at the same time. 

Santana stiffens next to her. I don't turn around; I know that my father is standing somewhere behind me. 

"Um…" says my father and I wince. 

My mom lets one hand sink down into her lap, and somehow, I know that Santana is holding it underneath the table. 

"Hello."

We don't answer. The line that is currently my mother's mouth gets even thinner. Santana snorts drily.

"I- um… I'm just going to…"

"Shut up?" snaps Santana. "Great idea, go ahead."

' _Santana_.' My mom's eyes seem to say, and my sister shrinks a little under her stern look. 

"Pack some stuff," finishes my father. 

The sound of his steps nearing us and then turning away from us echoes through the quiet house. When the sound subdues, my mom releases the breath she's been holding in a shuddering exhale. 

Her hands fold on the tabletop, and Santana reaches out to take them. There's a moment when their fingers do a strange kind of dance—or fight? –until they settle down, and Mom is the one that's holding Santana's hands in hers. It seems a desperate gesture from our mom to try to show us that she's still totally in control of everything, but especially herself. I know that, as a matter of fact, she's not at all in control.

Something's rumbling above us, and before I even realise what I'm doing, I jump up from the table and storm out of the room. 

"Rachel…"

My mother's words are a plea; nothing more or less. They're a plea not to make this even worse than it already is. I ignore her. Just this once, I tell myself, it is okay to ignore her words. 

My trembling, aching, sore legs do a remarkable job at getting me up the stairs at a record time, and when I trash into the master bedroom, I'm surprised that my knees don't buckle underneath me. 

My father's suitcase lays open on the bed. My father has his back turned to me, and when I talk, he jumps. 

"So, you're really going to see this through," I say. 

My heart has a hard time to decide whether it should jump out of my chest or stop pumping altogether. I cross my arms in front of my chest to keep them from trembling. 

The look on my father's face changes to something between guilt and apology. 

"Rachel, I-"

I shake my head. "I'm asking, _Dad_ , because I don't think that you've fully understood what this is going to mean."

"Believe me, Rachel, I do," says my father. 

I clench my fists. "So, you're _okay_ with this?! You're putting up with the fact that mom's miserable and Santana and I are- are _furious_?! You're just going to see this through and walk away and ruin this family? _Knowing_ that what you're doing is going to ruin everything?!"

He sighs. "Rachel, this is far more complicated than that, you-"

"No, it's not!" I shout. "It's not, Dad! Nothing is complicated about this! You either stay and tell that—that _woman_ that it's over, or you leave, and it's over with us!"

My father sinks down onto the bed with a sigh. "It's not all black and white, Rachel."

"Ha!" My arms wheel through the air in rage and one of my hands collides painfully with the doorframe. "Then what's the grey in this, Dad? Staying here, _pretending_ to love us—to love _Mom_ —, playing house with us, but loving someone else? Is that the grey you're talking about, Dad? Because that's no freaking option!"

"Rachel, that's not what I meant, I-"

"You know what I really don't understand?!" I interrupt him. My chest is heaving almost painfully fast, and I raise my hands to stroke my hair out of my forehead in an attempt to calm myself down. "How could you do this to us? To Santana and I—you know how much our family means to us and yet you go on destroying everything! And- and Mom… How could you do this to _Mom_?"

My voice cracks, and for a moment, I can hold back the tears. But then not anymore. "She loves you. She loves you _so much_. And you know it because you've spent three years _pretending_ to love her while she really did. You know how much you mean to her; you know that! You know how much she loves you and you're breaking—her—heart!"

Tears are streaming down my face, and my breath hitches as I try to get my thoughts into coherent sentences. "If you leave now, it's over. If you leave and not try to make this right, she's never going to forgive you. And neither will Santana and I. I just wanted to let you know."

Before he can say anything else, I whirl around and flee the room. I don't go back downstairs into the kitchen—I wouldn't want to upset my mom even more. Instead, I race into my room and slam the door shut behind me only seconds before I drop down onto my bed and sob into my pillow. 

That your dad is cheating on your mom is something that you never even think of finding out about. There are some stories about these things, and sometimes, though rarely, you overhear that the friend of a friend of your friend's mom cheated on his wife, and everyone looks down into their laps for a moment, in pity for the woman and her children. You do not think for a second that you are going to come home one afternoon to find your mother yelling at your father and then breaking down to cry because he's been cheating on her _for three years_. 

It still all seems so far away, and when I close my eyes and hold my breath just a little too long, I can pretend for a second, that it was just a dream. But then I open my eyes again, and together with the air that streams into my lungs, reality crashed into my body. 

I hear my father's footfalls echoing through the house. The front door opens with a click and closes with a thud. 

The silence afterwards weighs me down like nothing else. 


	3. What Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is the first chapter from Santana's POV. leave a review if you feel up to it - i'd love to hear what you think.  
> (chapter title is the same-titled song by Rihanna)

** Chapter 3  
** **What Now**

**Santana.**

As soon as the front door closes behind him, my mother's grip on my hands loses a little bit. Her eyes are red-rimmed and filled with tears that she's trying so hard to hold back that her shoulders tremble a little. She's still staring at the front door as though she expects him to come back at every second.

"I should go and check on Rachel," I hear her whisper quietly.

"No, you shouldn't," I shake my head. "I should."

"Santana-"

"Mom," I slowly stand up. "Let me check on Rachel."

For a second, she stares at me with this unmoving determination that could probably make a racing hurricane stop dead in its tracks. Then, she deflates. Her shoulders slump and she looks at her trembling hands. She nods. "Alright. Go."

Step by step, I leave the kitchen, never leaving my mother out of sight until it becomes an inevitability, and I turn around and hurry up the stairs. I can hear Rachel's sobs out in the hallway although her door is closed, and when I step inside the room, I want nothing more than to break down in tears.

"Rachel…"

Quickly, I crawl onto the bed to pull her into my arms. She doesn't even lift her arms to hug me back; she just cries into my shoulder.

"San, I- I just," she falls into her pillows and covers her face with her hands. "I hate him so much, San, I hate him."

I clench my teeth. "I know. I hate him too."

"But at the same time," Rachel sits up, sniffing. "At the same time, I love him so much, and it just hurts to know that he- that he-"

She lets out a strangled sob and sinks back into her pillows again.

"Rach," I say quietly. "Rach, what did you say to him up here?"

For a moment, Rachel stares at her fingers. Then, she rubs her nose and says, "I just wanted to make sure that—that he is sure of what he's doing. I told him he could either tell his _affair_ that it's over, or it's over with us." She snorted drily. "He said it's complicated."

I raise an eyebrow but say nothing. Mom didn't want her not to talk to him for no reason, after all. She knew it would end like this and she wanted to spare Rachel the pain. But Rachel is at least twice as stubborn as I and just as stubborn as Mom—maybe even more.

"Do you remember the day we had that photo taken?" Rachel leans over to pick up a framed picture from her nightstand and turns it in her hands to show me.

It's a picture of the four of us on a beach in Sicily. We're all wading through the ankle-deep, turquoise water; Rachel and I are a small bit ahead of our parents, both holding an ice-cream cone (our second that day if I remember correctly). Our fingers are linked loosely together and we're smiling at the camera. Behind us, Dad has his arms wrapped around Mom's waist, and her head is resting on his shoulder in a laugh.

It was our first vacation in Sicily, roughly two years ago, after Mom had been in London for four months to shoot a movie. When she returned, she and Dad took us out of school, two weeks before the Summer holidays began and we spent almost a month in a beautiful house in Sicily. We went there the next year and this year again, and Dad told us we could go there every year if we wanted to.

I remember that just seconds after the picture was taken, I tried to push Rachel into the water and she dropped her ice-cream and I fell instead.

"What goes around, comes around," said Gran, who'd taken the picture for us. She always was one for those proverbs.

When I look up at Rachel, I suddenly realise that it must've been the summer before Dad started to have an affair. The small smile on my lips fades.

"It's never going to be like that again," cries Rachel quietly. "Not for us, Maybe for Dad. Who knows, maybe that woman already has children. Maybe he's just switching families, and that's why it's so easy to leave you and me behind as well—because he has found himself other, better children."

My face is pinched into a scowl. I didn't think about it that way, but I should've known that Rachel would. She's always quick to put herself into a position that is far beneath her; where she's small and weak and unloved. It was like that when the Glee Club wasn't allowed to participate at Sectionals this year because one of their members quit when Rachel got the solo for the competition. She came home crying that afternoon and locked herself in the bathroom. Dad had to threaten twice that he would bash in the door that night when he came home, and it was only then that Rachel unlocked the door and came out.

At least she didn't lock herself in the bathroom today.

"I don't think that woman has children," I tell Rachel and bite my lips. "There's some kind of statistic that says most men have affairs with younger women."

Rachel shrugs. "That's just a statistic, though. There are always people that don't fit the statistic."

"Yeah, but I don't think Dad would be that cruel-"

"We didn't think he would be so cruel as to cheat on Mom either," counters Rachel.

My mouth snaps shut; she's right, we didn't think that. We didn't even consider that something like this could happen; it was unpredictable.

I look at Rachel who slams the photo back onto the nightstand and falls into her pillows again.

"I just don't want it to be true," whispers Rachel. "It can't be."

"Me neither," I say. I lay down beside Rachel and stare at the ceiling above us.

"Do you think Mom's going to divorce him?" Rachel asks after a while and my brows knit in a brow.

 _Divorce_. It would make it real; infinitely and definitely real. It would mean that he would never come back; that we would never be the family we were. A divorce would mean a fight for the custody of Rachel and me; it would mean that Rachel and I would have to decide where we wanted to live. Right now, I don't consider it an overly difficult question to answer; never would I want to live with the traitor of our family—the one that destroyed it. But who knows? Perhaps things are going to settle down and Dad will explain himself (though that will have to be one hell of an explanation) and my anger is going to fade a bit. Or maybe we'll find out that Mom had her role to play too in all this mess and then they'll be even and Rachel and I-

I shrug. "It suggests itself, but… I don't know. It's Mom's decision."

Rachel nods. She turns around and reaches out to take my hand. It's much smaller than mine and our fingers intertwine almost immediately as though it was an automatism.

The women of the Corcoran family never were of the tall kind, according to Mom, but even so, Rachel is considered small by them. And, considering that none of the women reaches above 5'7, that's ought to mean something.

It's her height that makes me even more protective of her, I think.

"You think tiny means handicapped!" Rachel once shouted at me when I was—once again—plucking her from the kitchen counter that she'd tried to climb to get a glass from a high-up shelf. I was stunned into silence that day. Just a few days before, a stupid boy at school had called Rachel handicapped and had shoved her into the lockers, so Rachel's words had stunned me even more. She usually never brought the things the kids at school did and said up at home (and still doesn't).

"Do you think Dad's going to marry that woman?"

My head whips up. I stare at my sister with my mouth open and she quickly averts her eyes.

"I-I," my mouth is suddenly dry. "I- shit."

I didn't think about it; I didn't even consider it.

"If he is," I finally manage to say. "I'm not going to accept the invitation. I'll send it back with a note: Go fuck yourself."

Rachel curls her lips. "That radical, San? Really?"

I tilt my head to one side. "What!? —what would you write?"

"'Hell no'"

Despite everything, I laugh. I free myself from her grip and poke her side. "That radical, huh?"

Rachel doesn't laugh, but she at least manages a small smile. She's much more dramatic than I am; much more controlled by her emotions.

With Rachel, I always know what she's feeling; if you know her a little better, you can read her like an open book. In that aspect, she and Mom are very much alike; they're both such drama queens.

But right now, it's not about the drama and the showing-off. It's about the whirlwind of emotion that's going on inside her—inside us.

Rachel props herself up on her elbows and looks at me in absolute seriousness. "In a few years—let's say in five years—if Dad would admit his mistakes and come back… do you think Mom would take him back? Do you think we could let him be our Dad again? Even after five years?"

Again, Rachel's question sends me into silence. I don't think about these kinds of things—I'm always getting too caught up in my anger or my happiness or whatever to consider the consequences, the what-if's and will's and won't-s. But Rachel—even in a state of distraught—manages to think of all this.

"I- She loves him so much," I say vaguely after a few seconds of silence. "But he hurt her with this, and… I mean, I don't know much about all this—I'm not an expert, and I think I'm too… young to really know—but maybe Mom will stop loving him. She can't love him when he doesn't… it's probably far too painful in the long run. So maybe she will find love elsewhere—with someone else, I mean. And if Dad would then come back… uh, Rachel, I really don't know. This is _Mom_ , we're talking about—when has she ever been in any way predictable?"

I'm desperately trying to lighten the mood, and it's not working at all. Rachel frowns at me a little and then turns away. 

"I don't know if I'd want him to come back," she says quietly. "I mean… if he lived with another woman—another family—for five years, and then suddenly decided that he wants his 'old' family back… I would feel like some kind of token in his life, you know? I would feel as though he was thinking that life was a game and he could toy with us."

I tilt my head to one side. Rachel has a point. Five years is a lot of time. In five years, I'll be long gone in some college (hopefully) and Rachel will start her first semester. In five years, I'm going to be 22, and Rachel's going to be 20, and Mom- God, Mom's going to be 47 already. It all seems so far away right now.

Up until now, I always pictured my return for semester break as some silly family reunion of sorts; In this day-dream, I would arrive at the train station in some kind of summer dress and with a summer hat with a broad brim on my head that I would pull off my head to wave at my family from afar. I would leave my suitcase on the platform and run into their arms and they would hug me all at the same time—Mom and Dad and Rachel—and we would laugh and Mom would let her teacher-accounted-iron-guard down and shed a few tears of joy and Rachel would start rambling about school with glowing cheeks and-

And now, there suddenly is a huge question-mark looming over that daydream. Will Dad be there at the platform? Will he wait with the others or will he stand a few metres away?

I shake my head in an attempt to shake off those thoughts and lift my head to look at Rachel again.

She looks so small at this moment, with her tear-stained cheeks and wet eyes and my fingers clutch the cloth of her blanket.

"San?"

I blink. "Yes?"

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

Rachel tilts her head to one side. "You just- you look so angry."

I clench my fists. "I _am_ angry."

"Why?"

"Because- Because-" I jump to my feet. My voice is wavering a little. "Argh! This is just- it's just unfair! _He_ is being unfair—no, he's being an asshole. A stupid, freaking asshole that doesn't give a shit about us!"

"San-"

"No!" I almost kick against the bedstead in anger. "No, it's true! We were _perfect_! We were the perfect family! Everyone would look at us and say: 'What a picture-perfect family. Blah, blah, blah.' And it was true! It was true, Rachel! We were the picture-perfect family! And now- now he's just destroyed everything! He just- maybe he doesn’t care anymore? Maybe he's got enough of us? But what fucking father gets enough of his own family?! What kind of father gets two options—leave your stupid slut or leave your family—and decides against his family?! What kind of asshole would do that?! You know what? Picture-perfect my ass!"

I want to storm out and slam the door for good measure, but it's Rachel who's sitting on the bed, not my father, so it would probably not have the whished effect.

Rachel cowers on the bed. Tears are welling up in her eyes again and she hugs herself tightly. "I wish I could just… turn back the time to last week and then always stop on Thursday."

I cross my arms in front of my chest to stop my arms from trembling. "He was already cheating on her then, Rachel."

"I know," Rachel says quietly. "But _we_ didn't know. I'd rather never found out about it than have all this going on."

My eyes widen just the slightest bit. "But Dad would still be cheating on Mom, Rachel! He would still not love her anymore; he would still just pretend to!"

Rachel tries to wipe the tears away but she's too late. Her shoulders slump until her back is curved into an almost perfect 'c'. "But at least Mom was happy—we were happy."

"But we can be happy again, Rachel, we-"

"Can we?" challenges Rachel. "How could we possibly be happy again, Santana? Mom's not going to stop loving him from one moment to the other, just because he broke her heart! That's literally what a broken heart means! And we're not going to miss him just because we're angry with him."

"Even so, Rachel! It's going to be better. Someday. Maybe not tomorrow or something, but… just someday, right? We're not always going to be angry with him-"

"Which will leave us with sadness," says Rachel and crosses her arms. "I'd prefer not knowing over this."

"I wouldn't," I shake my head. "Because that would be like… like living a lie, you know? He would only pretend to love Mom; he would only pretend to care!"

"But we wouldn't know, San! We—wouldn't—know! It wouldn't feel any different to us."

"It doesn't matter anyway; we can't turn back time."

Rachel looks down at her lap. "But I wish-"

"Yes, you wish!" I don't even know why I'm suddenly so angry. My fists clench and unclench on their own accord. "And I wish Dad would care enough to stay, and Mom wishes he would never have screwed around with some bitch, and-"

"Santana!"

I whirl around. My mother is standing in the threshold and while her eyes remain stern, telling me without a word that she doesn't appreciate my words at all, her body screams exhaustion. Her mouth is pinched and her features are hardened into solid stone, but the deep line on her forehead shows just how exhausted she is.

"You know exactly that I don't want to hear such language in this house!" she curls her lips. "I know you're—angry and sad, but that doesn't mean you can talk like this."

I lower my head for a second, staring at my hands. "I'm sorry, Mom."

Her face softens. "It's alright."

She tilts her head to one side and slowly steps further into the room, closing the door behind her. "What were you fighting about?"

Rachel tries to look away, but Mom has always had a strange talent to pin people with her looks, and so, she just blinks at her from big eyes and says, "We were just talking, Mom, not fighting."

I send my sister an apologetic look as I make my way to the bed again.

"So yelling is the new talking, then?" Mom asks. She has one eyebrow raised and, at that moment, I know that Rachel won't be held back anymore. It's that look of our mother's that always gets her to talk.

"Well, Santana asked me what I was saying to Dad, and then- you know, we started to fight. I don't even really know why, but- it just happened."

Mom sighs deeply. It sounds as though she's going to cry at every second, but then she catches her breath and closes her eyes for a second and says, "I would like to know that as well, Rach; what you two were talking about up here. All we heard was some incomprehensible yelling and then a door slamming shut."

Rachel closes her eyes for a second. "I just- I wanted to know if he- if leaving us was what he really wants."

Tears are welling up in her eyes and when I turn around to look at my mother, she seems to be trying all too desperately not to cry. Her voice is shaking so hard that it scares me. She's not the shaky-voice-kinda-person. "Oh, honey. I- I think he made it all too clear that his decision would be—definite."

She slowly climbs onto the bed, folding her hands between her thighs as she looks at the two of us with a wavery smile that quickly fades. I shake my head a little. "That bastard."

"Santana!"

Mom reaches out to slap my thigh, but it's half-heartedly. Because she probably thinks that he is one hell of a bastard as well. I smirk. "Sorry, Mom."

She sighs. Her shoulders slump a little and she looks at her hands for a moment. "Girls, if there's anything that worries you—anything that you want to talk about—you can just come to me, alright? I don't want you to keep it all inside—it's not healthy."

For a second, it's completely quiet in the room. Then, Rachel suddenly sits up straight and asks, "Do you know who she is?"

It's the one question that my mother probably dreaded to hear—the one question that she probably wished us not to ask—out of sensitivity. But Rachel has never been one of the sensitive kind, after all.

Mom's face is tightly pinched and the frown on her forehead increases -if that's even possible.

"I don't know her name if that's what you want to know," says Mom and she lets the air seep out of her lungs in a shuddering exhale. "But I think she's someone from work."

I scoff. "From work? Are you telling me he's got something going on with the secretary or what?! How absolutely cliché would that be?! What comes next? Is she, by any chance, in her early twenties and stupid as hell, as well?"

"San—tana!" Mom snaps.

I hear her frantic breathing, and when I look up at her, I see that she has one hand covering her neckline, trying to calm herself.

"I know that you're angry," she says calmly.

"Angry?" Rachel interrupts. "I'm not angry. I'm furious."

Mom sighs. "Even so, I don't want to hear you talk like that."

She slowly leans back and braces one hand behind her. Her back is straight as a die and everything about her stance conveys a certain feeling of fortitude, but the way her brow is constantly furrowed and her eyes seem to have lost a good amount of happiness in them shows that she's not at all bearing all this with fortitude. There are dark circles underneath her eyes and her cheeks seem a little raw from all the crying.

"Mom, what's going to happen with the house?" I ask. "I mean, are you going to keep it or is Dad?"

She runs a hand over her forehead. "I don't know, Santana. We would have to talk about that—your father and I."

"So, that's it?" Rachel mutters. "It's over—just like that? He can just leave and—and destroy this family and no one's going to do something against it?"

I look closely at my mom. For a few seconds, she says nothing and simply stares ahead at something on the other end of the room. She blinks a few times as if she was feeling the tears welling up in her eyes again.

"Rachel, honey," she leans forward and places a hand on Rachel's thigh so she looks into her eyes. "There is nothing that we could do against it. Your father is a grown man—he makes his own decisions."

"But his decisions are destroying our family!"

"I know, honey," Mom quickly crawls over to Rachel and gathers the girl up in a hug. "I know."

Watching Rachel cry makes it all the harder for me not to let the tears fall as well. Like her laugh, her crying seems contagious—those loud sobs and gasps- no. It's my mom who's gasping; gasping through the threat of impending tears.

The anger that has been bubbling in my inside subdues and turns into sadness. And my mother—who's always been the most sensitive in this family—beckons me silently to her side. She folds her arm around me and holds me close. I cry into the crotch of her neck like I used to do as a little girl.

I feel like that little girl again; I feel just as helpless and hopeless and alone. I don't want to imagine what my mother must feel like. She's a strong one—I'm not even half as strong; I don't think that I could bear what she's feeling right now.


	4. Broken-Hearted Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every chapter that's written from Shelby's POV is written from a third person POV for... storytelling reasons or whatever lol.  
> (chapter is the same-titled song by Beyoncé)

** Chapter 4  
** **Broken-Hearted Girl**

**Shelby.**

**iMessage**

**Sunday, 22 nd November **

**1:57 p.m.**

**_Cassie:_ ** _girl, why don't you answer my calls?_

**_Shelby:_ ** _Sorry, much going on._

**_Cassie:_ ** _I and the chicks are going to meet for pizza. Wanna join?_

**_Shelby:_ ** _The chicks and I. And no, like I said; much going on._

**_Cassie:_ ** _What's it?_

**_Shelby's offline._ **

**_Cassie:_ ** _Shelby?_

**_Cassie:_ ** _Hello?_

**2:12 p.m.**

**_Cassie:_ ** _Screw this, I'm coming over._

With a sigh, she sits down at the kitchen table. The silence in the house is devastating; it reminds her again and again of how it should be—how it isn't and won't ever be again. Rachel is at another dance class for the recital next week. God, the recital. Slowly, she drops her head into her palms, running her fingers through her long hair. He will be there, won't he? Yes, Shelby thinks. He wouldn't miss it for the world. Or would he? 

She feels like she doesn't know him anymore. The man she knows—or knew? –would never even so much as think of cheating on his wife. In fact, she remembers a certain conversation between the two of them from roughly four years ago. 

It went something like this: 

_Shelby stood with her back turned to the door in the kitchen, bent over the stove, a spoon raised to her lips as she tasted—and seasoned—the sauce. Well, it was a little stale—nothing that a pinch of salt and pepper couldn't fix. Or perhaps, she mused, a pinch of sugar. Hadn't her mother once told her that sugar could fix a stale sauce?_

_She would go with the salt and pepper, she decided; play it safe—she didn't want to screw this up—not at her first try._

_Suddenly, the sound of the front door being flung open disturbed the calming silence that had lingered in the house, and Shelby started so much that she banged her head against the kitchen hood._

_"Shelby?"_

_The kitchen door opened, and David stormed into the room._

_"Shh," Shelby hissed, rubbing the back of her head. "Rachel just fell asleep."_

_He recoiled. "Fell asleep? Is she sick?"_

_"No, it was just a really exhausting dance lesson today," she tilted her head to one side. "Are you all right?"_

_David turned around to close the kitchen door behind him. He didn't look all right. He looked distraught, if not upset, and a little angry._

_"Sit down," he said, but Shelby shook her head._

_"No, I have to keep an eye on the sauce and the potatoes. Say, dear, what is it?"_

_She watched closely as he lowered himself on one of the chairs, running both hands through his short, black hair. He sighed. Shelby narrowed her eyes at him. "David."_

_It was her teacher-voice that he liked to tease her for, but right now, it got his attention. He looked up with a furrowed brow._

_"Remember Lindsay? From-"_

_"From the office party? 'Lithesome Lindsay'?" Shelby interrupted._

_David scrunched up his nose. "Yes. Don't call her that."_

_"Hey, credits don't belong to me—Cassie made that up."_

_"Yeah, I know," David tilted his head to one side. "But then again, you were pretty drunk that night, so might as well have been you."_

_Shelby's eyes widened in fake hurt. "What? Me? That you could imply that I did that…"_

_"Anyway," said David, interrupting her—clearly theatrical—recital. "So, you do remember her?"_

_She turned to stir the sauce._

_"If we're talking about the tall, scrawny blonde with the spindly legs, then yes, I do remember her," Shelby dipped the spoon into the sauce and tasted it once again. Yes. That was it._

_"Well, she was in the office today because she's friends with Jordan-"_

_"Jordan is the one with the big glasses, right?"_

_"No, that's Austin. Jordan is the secretary."_

_"Oh, right," Shelby handed the spoon to David so he could taste as well. "Sorry, dear, I keep mixing them up. Give me another half a year."_

_She watched the spoon disappear between his lips. He closed his eyes for a second and then, with a smack of his lips, handed it back to Shelby with an acknowledging nod._

_"Well, she was at the office," he continued. "And Jordan had gone to buy some donuts for our break, and we all sat there and had coffee and then she wanted to call her husband that she'd be a little late home. And she found out that he's been cheating on her."_

_Shelby turned around. Her eyes widened. "Cheating on her? Oh, God, how awful."_

_She didn't know that Lindsay-woman, but she couldn't help but feel sympathetic towards the woman—finding out that your husband cheated on you when just having fun with some friends had to be absolutely awful._

_"And you know who her husband is?"_

_Shelby shook her head._

_"The deputy mayor."_

_"No," she sounded interested and appalled at the same time._

_David nodded. "Yes. The deputy mayor is a freaking cheater."_

_"I can't believe it," Shelby shook her head at the very idea. "The deputy mayor. He always seems so nice."_

_David snorted drily. "Turns out he's all but a cheating bastard."_

_"I wouldn't go that far as to call him a bastard, Dave-"_

_"Well, then what_ would _you call him?" David suddenly jumped up from his chair. "What is a man who- who's breaking his vows—his promise! –just so he can screw some other woman if not a bastard?! It's cowardly and wrong and- and it's unfair for every party involved. I just don't understand how some men can think like that."_

_Shelby put her hands on her hips, tilting her head to one side. "What do you mean; 'unfair for every party involved'?"_

_David stroked through his hair. "Well, obviously, it's unfair on his wife-"_

_"You don't say!"_

_"And it's unfair on the woman he's cheating with as well because- I mean, he's practically leading two lives, isn't he? There's his wife and supposedly children at home, but he forgets them when he's with her. And when he goes home, he forgets her. He's fully committed to neither one of them."_

_Shelby huffed. "Well, I've never understood the advantages of cheating anyway."_

_She lifted the cooking top and pricked one of the potatoes with a knife to see if they were already done. "I mean… why keep one woman when you know you're not in love with her? Why hurt someone like that?"_

_"Don't ask me," David thrust his hands up in the air in rage. "I wouldn't know."_

_"Hey," Shelby turned around, putting both hands on her hips. "No need to get all grumpy with me."_

_She looked at her husband for a second—how he ran his fingers through his hair in distress. She sighed deeply. "David."_

_Slowly, she stepped closer to him. "What are you thinking about?"_

_He didn't look at her, but instead kept his look trained on the wall to his opposite, his hands folded behind his head. Then, he said, "Cheating should be punished with a prison sentence."_

_Shelby shook her head. "It's their lives; it's their decision."_

_"Just like kidnapping or murdering someone is a decision!"_

_"That's not what you were thinking about, though, is it?" She stepped even closer and raised her hands to trail her fingers along the sides of his face, resting on his cheeks. His arms locked around her waist, pulling her close against him as though they were trained to—as though they were on autopilot._

_"Promise me you'll never cheat on me?"_

_Shelby's eyes widen. "Not in a hundred years would I cheat on you, David. Not even for all the money in the world."_

_She leant in to kiss his lips. "This is really getting to you, isn't it?"_

_David didn't answer. Instead, he just leant his forehead against Shelby's and said, "They should be locking him up. He's supposed to set a pattern for other men—he's the deputy mayor, for God's sake."_

_"Even so, he-"_

_At that moment, the front door opened._

_"I'm home!" sounded fourteen-year-old-Santana's voice through the hallway._

* * *

Shelby can't quite remember what happened after that. She might if she could think about it for some time, but then the doorbell rings and Shelby sits up straight at the kitchen table. She doesn't expect any visitors, and neither of her daughters asked her if they could invite some friends over, so who can it be? It is Sunday, so it can't be the mail either. With a faint frown adorning her forehead, Shelby stands up. 

"Mom?" sounds the voice of Santana from her room. "Are you getting the door?"

"I am."

She doesn't really recognise her voice; it still sounds a little raw from the lack of sleep and all the crying, and it's shaking ever so slightly. With a small groan, Shelby pushes herself up-right like a woman in her late seventies might do. She certainly feels as though she's aged ten years in the last 48 hours—though that doesn't bring her even close to her late seventies. 

The way from the kitchen to the door never felt as long as it does now. Although there are only a few meters between the kitchen table and the glass door that separates the entrance room from the living room and the hallway, she feels like it takes her hours to reach the front door. She tries to catch a glimpse of the uninvited visitor through the small window next to the door, but the person is standing too far on the left for Shelby to see. 

Taking a deep breath, bracing herself for whatever is awaiting, she opens the door and tries a slight smile. A smile that fades almost immediately. "Cassie?"

"Yes, that's me. Thanks for remembering."

The blonde woman tilts her head to one side. She has her hands put on her hips and looks at Shelby from narrow eyes. "Geez, you look like crap."

Shelby runs a hand over her forehead. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't answer my text."

"I didn't."

Cassie curls her lips. "Yeah, exactly. And I didn't appreciate it."

"So, you decided to what—stop by for coffee?" the sarcasm that Shelby wishes to achieve doesn't find a way into her voice. Instead, she just sounds tired. 

The blonde woman arches an eyebrow. "Yes, is that a problem?"

"Actually, Cassie, things have been pretty topsy-turvy lately and-"

"Whatever that means," with a huff, the blonde woman pushes past Shelby and pulls the door close behind her. "I haven't driven all the way here just to be sent away, Patti LuPone."

She drops the big sunglasses she wore into her bag and steps further into the hallway. 

"Cassie, you live twenty-five minutes from here."

"See?" says Cassie. "That's half a world cruise."

Shelby doesn't laugh—she's not in the mood for jokes. She simply continues to stare at the woman that's standing in her hallway and says nothing. 

"Well, I'm going to see myself into the kitchen since you seem to have your hips glued to that wall." Cassie turns around, and Shelby closes her eyes for a second. She's not at all up for this—this telling-your-friends-that-you're-a-newly-singled thing. 

But she cannot leave Cassie alone in the kitchen—every time she does that, the blonde woman ends up burning something—even when they're not cooking. So, she pushes away from the wall that she's been leaning against and follows her best friend. 

Shelby Corcoran met Cassandra July—or "Cassie" as she insists on being called—when she got her first role at Broadway, a good 24 years ago. Cassie played one of the roles with the heavy dance parts—something that Shelby never trusted herself to even try to audition for—and Shelby was so annoyed by the blonde woman's narcissism that, in one rehearsal, she simply emptied her stagnant water bottle over her head instead of the sink. In turn, Cassie slapped her across the face and when Shelby slapped her back, and Cassie hit her again, though this time with her clenched fist, she actually managed to knock out one of Shelby's teeth. They were best friends ever since. 

And now, that best friend of hers sits down at her kitchen table, and Shelby doesn't have another option than sitting down with her. 

"Where's little-Patti?" says Cassie and takes a sip from _Shelby's_ juice. 

Shelby doesn't even have the energy to roll her eyes. "Rachel's at a dance class."

The blonde nods acknowledging. "Good girl. Dancing is what she should do."

"You mean _Broadway_ is what she should do."

"Same difference."

Shelby raises both eyebrows. "Good to know."

Cassie waves a hand at her. "And what about San?"

"She's here."

"And all okay?"

Shelby frowns. "Of course, they're okay."

Cassie leans back in her chair. Her face is twisted into her creepy-dance-teacher look—the one that has already moved some students to tears. But Shelby's track record is just as neat; she manages the observing no-nonsense look at least twice as good as Cassie—and the range of students that she's already brought to tears is just about never-ending. 

"No one's dead, no one's lost a limb?"

Shelby shakes her head. She doesn't even manage a simple "no". Her throat tightens—she knows where this is going to end. 

"Then why do you look like you've just seen your dead grandmother?" Cassie folds her hands on the table. "Your dead grandmother that told you, your kids smashed your Tony."

Shelby says nothing. She feels the tears welling up in her eyes—but she pushes them down, again and again, and again. 

"Oh my God, did your kids smash your Tony?!" Cassie bursts, and when she raises her hands to cover her mouth, she almost knocks over the glass of juice. 

Shelby recoils. "No. Cassie, they're not five anymore."

"Then—what—happened, Shelby?" the blonde suddenly doesn't look amused at all. She uncrosses her arms and furiously strokes a strand of hair out of her forehead. 

Shelby shakes her head. "Cassie, I just- I don't-"

"Shel-by," says Cassie. "Tell me, or I'm just going to ask Santana."

The blonde leans back, and her observant eyes wander through the kitchen for a second. "Where's David, by the way? Did he go to the bakery? Is he going to bring cake?"

The tears spill before Shelby can even realise that they are there. A low, sob-like sound escapes her lips, and her hands fly to her mouth to stifle the noise. 

Cassie's eyes widen. "Oh my God, Shelby!" 

She's barely struggled to her feet when she already pulls Shelby into her arms. Her hands fold behind Shelby's back and Shelby gasps into the crotch of her best friend's neck. For a few seconds, she feels as though her mind was separated from her body; her thoughts come to a sudden halt—her head feels like it's floating, but her body remains firmly on the ground. She holds her breath and tries to suppress the sobs that are forcing their way out of her throat until she can't tell the pain in her heart from the pain in her lungs anymore. When she opens her mouth again, the air seeps into her body with a sharp gasp. 

At least the sobs have subdued—they've been replaced by shuddering breaths. 

"Shelby." Cassie's voice sounds far away and blasting-right-into-her-ear at the same time. "Shelby, what's going on?"

She's too busy trying to calm herself down to answer. "Oh my God, Shelby, are you having a stroke? It's been thirty years or something since I had that first aid training, I don't even know how to do that stupid collateral whatever position-"

"It's all right," Shelby pants. She pushes herself away from the blonde's shoulders and sinks into her chair again. 

If she were in the right mood, she would never leave Cassie's rambling uncommented, but she can't even bring order into her own thoughts, so forming a sentence like "Perhaps you should consider asking the doctor to do a check on collateral damage in your brain" seems impossible. 

Cassie stares at her from big, brown eyes, filled with worry. "Shelby, what the hell happened?"

She knits her brows together. "Oh, God, did he die? Is David dead?"

_Worse._ Shelby wants to say. She bites her lips. She wouldn't prefer him to be dead over this, or would she? Yes, she would. Because at least he'd have left unintentionally. No, she wouldn't. Because although he left, at least he's still safe and alive. And that's all she ever wished for him.

"Shelby!"

Her head whips up. "Tell me what's going on, right—now! I'm _this close_ to calling an ambulance!"

"Given your perfect knowledge of first aid measures, you probably don't even know which number to call," Shelby wants to say, but instead, the words that find a way past her lips are much different. 

She says, her voice breaking, "He's been cheating on me for three years."

"No," Cassie puts her hands to her face in shock. "No fucking way."

Shelby nods. "Yes. Fucking yes. With some bimbo from work."

"Oh God, Shelby, I-I don't know what to say, I- I'm so sorry."

Cassie slowly lowers herself into the chair next to Shelby. Her fingers ghost over the brunette's left shoulder. "I would never have thought that he—I mean the two of you were, like the dream couple, and-"

"Some dream that is," Shelby says. She can't even carry the emotions she's feeling into her words—they sound numb and somehow empty. 

Cassie's fingers come to a halt on her shoulder. "When- when did you find out? And how?"

Long fingers yanking through brown hair. A heavy sigh. Shelby closes her eyes to keep the tears inside. When she talks, it seems that those tears have somehow transferred to her voice. 

"I found out Friday afternoon. And how? How. By accident—some stupid incident. If he hadn't… and then I never would've found out—we'd still be together, playing house and-"

"I'm sorry, Shelby, but you're not making any sense."

With a huff, Shelby lets her hands sink on the tabletop where she folds them and stares at her fingers. 

"I came home early on Friday—the auditorium at Carmel is being renovated, and Principal Adkins pushed me to cancel rehearsals—and I just wanted to mark some assignments. So, I got my stuff to sit down in the kitchen—I do that sometimes when the children aren't there—but some phone was ringing the whole time, and I thought it was mine, but my phone was dead. David had forgotten his phone at home and I- I didn't mean to spy or anything, but- it just annoyed me, and I wanted to turn it off. But then I saw all those messages and I- I just flipped."

Shelby wipes at her eyes furiously although there aren't even any tears. 

"What kind of messages?"

"Oh, you know," Shelby whispers. "' _Are you free on Saturday to meet for lunch?_ – _I miss you so much. – I love you so much._ ' Stuff like that."

She bites her lips to keep the tears at bay. "He has her listed as 'heart' on his phone, so I thought it could be anyone—I thought that maybe I was paranoid, but I just had this feeling, so- so I called at the office so they would tell him that I'd called. I asked them to say that he'd left his phone and that he should come home immediately. The moment that he stepped through the door, I knew that I'd been right. And he knew that I knew." 

When Shelby looks up, Cassie's brows are knit together in pity. Usually, she hates pity, but right now, she wants to drown in it. It seems like a good thing to do—not a reasonable -let alone wise- thing, but something that she can just do—not much thinking involved. 

"What did you do?" asks Cassie softly. 

"I kicked him out. I freaked out, and I yelled at him and then I kicked him out. And I know it sounds like something that must've felt incredibly liberating, but actually, it was just awful," she runs her fingers through her hair and tilts her head back a little as if that would keep the tears from welling in her eyes. "And the girls—God, they're… they're devastated."

Cassie sits up a little at that. "What did you tell them?"

"That's just it," she can't hold the tears back any longer. "They know. They know everything."

"No way."

"Yes," her voice has jumped up at least half an octave and Shelby puts her hands to her face for a second to compose herself. It doesn't work. 

"Oh God, Shelby," Cassie sounds distraught and angry at the same time. "Why would you tell them?"

Shelby's head whips up. "I didn't tell them, Cassie! What kind of monster do you think I am? Santana was supposed to be at her cheerleading practice, and Rachel had her dance class right after school. I would never have confronted him like I did if I'd known that the children were there. But I didn't know, I- I just didn't know."

She takes the hem of her sleeve to dab at her eyes, but the tears continue to flow. "And now—now they hate him. I-I never wanted them to hate him—this is not some kind of competition between David me—we don't need to fight for our children's love; we don't need to turn them against one of us. And I- I know how hard it is when your parents break up—they shouldn't have to hate him for me. They should still love him—he's their father, he-"

"Shelby," Cassie slowly reaches to take her hand. "They're just upset; they'll come around."

"No," she shakes her head. Her hand lays only loosely in Cassie's, but she appreciates the comfort of the gesture anyway. "No, they're not just upset, Cassie. This morning, I heard them talk in Santana's room when I was doing the laundry. They thought I didn't hear, but I did, and Rachel asked if Santana was still thinking of killing him. _Killing him_ , Cassie!"

The blonde gently squeezes her hand. "They're teenagers, Shelby; they tend to exaggerate."

"And when did you turn into a paediatric psychiatrist, may I ask?" Shelby sniffs. 

"Somewhere along the road," Cassie waves a hand. "Seriously though, Shelby; they won't hate him forever."

She leans forward and tries to lock eyes with Shelby, but the brunette turns away just the slightest bit.

"I fear—no, I _know_ —this won't be the fairy-tale divorce my parents had," Shelby says quietly, wringing her hands. "And it's going to be so hard on Santana and Rachel, and-"

Her voice breaks and her hands find her face, covering it as she sighs deeply. She knows that -for a child of divorce- she had a pretty decent childhood. Her parents hadn't loved each other for five years already—only staying together for Shelby and her sister Amelia's sake—when they finally got their divorce. Shelby was fourteen when her mother moved into an apartment closer to the city centre of Philadelphia where Shelby had grown up. Gladly, her parents broke up in peace, and after two years of polite small talk in the hallway, they settled on being friends. And though Shelby, at first, had a hard time accepting her parents' decision, she eventually got to terms with it. 

But she knows that what she's going to face will be much different than her parents' relationship—she knows that it will be unbelievably hard on Santana and impossibly hard on Rachel. She knows that her heart is already broken but will probably suffer even more once the law comes into the picture.

"Cassie?" 

"Yes?"

Shelby gives her friend a tired smile. "Do me a favour and don't try to track him down and break his nose, alright?"

The blonde raises both hands in protest, but the sparkle in her eyes tells Shelby that she hit home. "I'd never."

She cocks her head to one side. "I'd track him down and crush his balls. Break his nose—ha! Really, Shelby, you of all people should know that I never half-ass things."

At this moment, Shelby isn't entirely sure if Cassie's only joking. She also isn't sure if she'd like David's nose to be broken or his balls to be crushed. 

Probably not, she muses. It wouldn't even come close to the pain of her broken heart, so why bother?


	5. Against All Odds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel's turn again.  
> (chapter title is the same-titled song by Phil Collins)

** Chapter 5  
** **Against All Odds**

**Rachel.**

I'm floating. I'm stuck between dream and reality, day and night, suffocating and taking a breath—and I float. It feels wonderful to leave the ground—the earth—behind; to defy knowledge and theory, assumption and impossibility. Not a single thought fills my mind, not a single worry. 

"Rachel."

I slowly sink downwards; my invisible wings lose their witchcraft. 

"Rachel, sweetie, you forgot to set the alarm."

With a loud crash, I fall to the ground. My eyes fly open. Mom's sitting on the edge of my bed, already dressed in her work clothes, though her hair is still in a messy, uncombed bun. 

"I did?" I sit up in my bed, rubbing my eyes. "What's the time?"

"6:45."

"No way!" I scramble to my feet. "I have to take a shower."

For a second, I stumble and dare to fall, but my mother places a steady hand on my back and gently leads me out of the room. 

"What would you like for breakfast?" 

I turn around with big eyes. Of course. My father always is the first one up in the morning, so he's the one that usually sets the table and prepares breakfast—Mom often marks a few assignments before school so she can enjoy some rest during lunch break. 

At least it used to be that way. But now, everything's different. 

For a second, I think she's going to squirm under my shocked look, but she's already halfway into Coach-Corcoran mode, so she gets herself together and simply raises an eyebrow at me. "Rachel? What would you like for breakfast?"

She draws out the words, and I know immediately that she's not in a good mood this morning. Of course, she isn't—how could she?

"Toast with avocado," I slip into the bathroom. "And can you pour me a glass of oat milk?"

"Of course," my mother's voice sounds behind me. "Do you want a cup of coffee as well?"

"No, thank you. Avocado and coffee don't go well together."

She laughs but only half-heartedly. 

"Make it quick, your shower," she says when she's sobered up.

She leaves, and I disappear into the bathroom. My clothes for the day lay neatly folded on the stool in the corner of the room—I already put them out the evening before, so the morning won't be that stressful. But today I have to hurry anyway. 

I try not to fall asleep in the shower and when brushing my teeth and my hair, but I find myself having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I haven't had a good night's sleep in three days, and it's just now that my body craves to catch up with that. 

Santana doesn't look much better when I walk into the kitchen. In fact, she seems even more tired than I—resting her chin in her palm and staring at her bowl of fruit and yoghurt with her lids half-closed. 

"Rachel," says Mom as she places my glass of oat milk next to my plate. She sits down to my opposite and gently nudges Santana's side while she talks. "I'm going to give you a ride today. I just got an email from Principal Adkins—I need to step in for some seventh-grade teacher in the first period."

I throw a look at the clock above the door. "Leave at 7:40?"

"Let's say 7:30, you never know what traffic's like."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, come on, Mom, it never takes more than 15 minutes to McKinley."

"Yes, but I need to be at Carmel High at 8:00, so we'll have to leave a bit earlier."

We all try to act as normal as we can—as though the empty seat at the kitchen table wasn't freaking us out. As though we didn't all have to cover the dark circles underneath our eyes with an extra layer of make-up this morning. 

Sluggishly, I sink my teeth into my avocado toast. I'm surprised to find that it's one of the most delicious ones I've ever eaten. And up until now, I thought Dad was making the best ones. But there's something different about this—a vague taste of some mild spice—that has my eyes roll back a little. God, this is the best toast in the entire world. Who knew that a simple avocado toast could taste so incredibly good? 

"Santana," Mom says and nudges my sister's side. "Santana, don't fall asleep again—I made coffee."

Forcing her eyes open, Santana takes the cup of coffee from Mom's hands. "Thanks," she mumbles. 

She looks ready to go to bed again, resting her chin in her palm and keeping her eyes half-closed. "Rachel, you got your test today, right?"

Mom sits up straight. "A test, Rachel? You didn't say anything."

I smirk at Santana—she knows exactly how to get our mother's attention to something else than her own having-her-elbow-on-the-table-manner. 

"I forgot," I say. "It's just English, Mom, and I did learn for it."

"I should hope so."

"Really, Mom, I did."

She gives me a doubtful look. "We'll see when you'll get it back."

I sigh in response—she's always such a stickler for grades. 

When we have to leave, we all have to force ourselves out of the house—none of us has had a good night's sleep, and we all don't really feel ready to face the day. It seems to me that, as the front door clicks shut, it really is real—he won't come back. This is the first day—the first weekday—without him. He's had three days to change his mind, and he didn't. This is definite, I realise and feel tears welling up in my eyes.

"Rachel, are you coming?" 

I turn around, hurrying after my mother to the car. "Of course."

She looks at me from narrowed eyes, somewhat suspiciously, but I slip into my seat and close the door before she can form any questions. 

The ride to school is mostly quiet. Santana is fumbling half-asleep with the button for the radio and keeps flicking through some channels, I have my eyes on the passing cars and Mom from time to time impatiently drums her fingers on the steering wheel and mutters a stressful "Pull over, already."

It shows once more how incredibly tense she is—she's usually a very patient and understanding driver. Though, of course, she also has her moments of road rage. 

I suddenly have to remember that one time about one and a half years ago, when we were on our way to Cincinnati for a family weekend trip. Mom had been on edge all day long already (and, if I remember it correctly, it was around 11 a.m.) She had had a rough week, returning from a "small" gig (small, in her case, means "oh, honey, nothing big. About 1000 people") in Clearwater to a week of teaching until 3:40 p.m. every day and she was totally stressed out. And Santana and I were probably not really helping with our constant arguing about the music we wanted to listen to. So, when we were just passing through Dayton, it… well, it just escalated. A guy in a huge SUV (and those _always_ get on Mom's nerves. Always.) cut in on her and almost crashed into us, and she totally flipped. She just pulled over into an empty parking space and let out a hundred curse words in such close succession that she probably set a world record with it. And then, she took a deep breath, straightened up and said, "Who's in for ice cream?" 

And she got out of the car as though that had been her plan all along and we all searched for an ice cream shop, and Santana and I spent over half an hour trying to remember all the curses Mom had said. 

But that's about it with the road rage stories about my Mom. She's always composed in her car, always very reliable and considerate. It's something that never fails to make me feel safe—no matter what crazy people are on the streets, endangering everyone with their stupid passing manoeuvres. 

The drumming of her fingers makes me slightly nervous. Slightly. 

With a huff, I lean back. Santana turns her head to raise an eyebrow at me. _What is it_? She seems to ask, and I simply shrug and turn away. It's just a feeling that I have—a bad one. One of those that let you know today is not going to be a good day. 

Mom pulls over a few metres away from the driveway to the parking lot in front of the school and turns around to look at Santana and me in turns. "Have a good day, girls," she says after a second. 

Santana knits her brows. "Um…Mom, you're standing like 400 metres away from the entrance. Are we supposed to walk all the way?"

I roll my eyes. She knows exactly that Mom always complains about all the parents driving their children to school every single day and how they "block the entire parking lot with their tank of a car". Which is why usually, Santana and I are supposed to take the bus. Except for on Tuesdays and Thursdays—when Dad gives us a ride. 

"Santana, that's hardly more than 100 metres," says Mom. "And you do a lot of sports—100 metres shouldn't be a problem for you."

She reaches over to open the passenger door. 

"It is in the morning," murmurs Santana but she stands up anyway and sluggishly grabs her schoolbag from the footwell. "Bye Mom." And she shuts the door behind her. 

I linger on a bit longer, taking my time to move over to the other side of the car and shoulder my bag. Mom's no longer drumming her fingers, I notice. Instead, she now taps her fingertips together as though she was playing the violin. 

"Love you, Mom," I say, and she looks up at me with a weak smile. 

"Love you too, Rach."

When I close the door behind me and turn towards the school building, Santana is impatiently shifting from one foot to the other. She's still wearing her Cheerio uniform although it's the middle of November and getting colder with each day. Her arms are crossed in front of her, and she tilts her head to one side. "What took you so long?"

I turn around to watch our mother's car drive down the street. "She's not well."

"You don't say!"

"Santana," my lips are pressed to a thin line. "I mean it. She really isn't well. She pretends to, but she isn't."

Santana lowers her head a little. "I know."

At that moment, she forgets that she's already in the McKinley High be-cool-or-get-slushied territory. Her shoulders slump, and she looks defeated. She never lets down her guard at school. Never ever. 

"Such a little shit," she says, but there's no bite to her voice—all strength seems to have left her. "How could he do this to us?" 

She stares at her white sneakers, crosses and uncrosses her ankles and then kicks an invisible pebble stone. I clutch the handle of my bag harder, trying to suppress the tears. _How could he do this to us?_

Slowly and with great effort, Santana straightens up, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin up high. 

"Okay," she takes a deep breath and lets the air seep out of her lungs in a long exhale. "Okay, let's go in there. Mom is going to kill me if she has to sign another one of those stupid referral forms."

I attempt to arch an eyebrow at my sister, but the expression misses its usual snide. "Geez, how many did she have to sign already this school year?"

Santana shrugs. "Four, I think. Maybe five."

I let my eyes wander across the parking lot. Kurt Hummel is standing in front of the dumpster, surrounded by some of the Titan-jocks. I narrow my eyes as I watch how they take his bag from him and empty it on the ground. Although outside of Glee, I don't have much to do with Kurt, I still feel awful for him. I can't bring myself to turn away as the Titans pick him up to dump him into one of the dumpsters. Because turning away would mean ignoring it, and I don't want to be one of those that just pretend everything was normal when it clearly isn't. And also, I know how it feels when everyone is just ignoring your misery and the bullying you have to face each and every day. 

I don't even think twice about it as I turn around and head back across the parking lot, away from the entrance. 

"Rachel, what the-?" I hear Santana say, but I ignore her. 

"Hey!" 

I'm at least 10 inches smaller than the guys before me, but that doesn't hold me back. 

One of them, a guy named Ian, arches an eyebrow at me, turning to his friends with an amused snort. "Are you talking to us, Man Hands?"

I clench my fists—not out of anger but to give me some courage. The day is already doomed to be the worst ever—might as well take some advantage of that. 

"Actually, I am," I say. "I wanted to ask you if you would also like to smell like a garbage can even more than you already do. Because you see, I could arrange that for you. The dumpsters are right here, and you seem to be having a lot of fun throwing other people in there."

Ian narrows his eyes at me. His arms sink to his sides as he slowly approaches me. The look on his face has my heart picking up pace. 

"What was that, Midget?" he asks, leaning closer. "You wanna join Lady Face in his little spa adventure?" 

I try to back away, but the Titans have encircled me. The guy behind me is like an unmovable wall in my back, and there's no way I can escape Ian's grip as he reaches for me. 

"Hey!"

My head whips up. Never in my life have I been more grateful to see Noah Puckerman. He has his arms crossed in front of him and clenches one fist. "Ian, you let go of _my girlfriend's sister_ , or you'll be next to be castrated."

To my surprise, Ian and his friends really back away from me under Puck's stern look. They don't miss the chance to trample over Kurt's stuff though, as they leave, and I scowl angrily at their backs. 

"Are you alright, Berry?" Puck asks me, and I nod.

I turn towards the dumpster. "Could you help Kurt out of there?"

For a moment, Puck looks a little appalled at that idea. He _does_ have a reputation to keep, after all, and how would that look if he was to help such a 'loser' like Kurt? 

"Please?" I say with an innocent blink. 

With a sigh, Puck pushes himself up, reaching out to offer Kurt his hand. When they both stand safely on the ground again, he turns towards me with a grin and says, "You owe me big time, Berry."

And with that, he's gone, and I turn to Kurt again and help him gather his stuff from the ground. 

"Those stupid jocks," he murmurs. "This notebook was new."

He holds up a tattered book with a dark green cover and slowly stuffs it back into his bag. 

"Thank you, by the way," he says after a moment, an almost shy smile on his lips. "You didn't have to do that."

I shake my head. "Yes, I had. What they do is always being ignored by everyone—I know how that feels."

Kurt doesn't answer. Both of us have to endure a different kind of bullying at school. But it's still, in the end, all the same: it's bullying—assault, even. With Kurt, it's the almost daily journey to the dumpsters, and with me, it's the almost daily slushy attack. At least, I think, Kurt gets it done in the morning and then he's done for the day, but I have to fear the whole day long that, behind every corner, someone's standing to throw a slushy at me. 

Rubbing my hands on my jeans, I stand up to face Kurt. 

"It was really brave," he says. "To walk up to them like that. I don't know if I would've done it. So… thank you again."

I wave a hand dismissively. "Oh, it was nothing."

Ha! Except for the moment that I thought, Ian and his friends were going to throw me in the dumpster as well.

"Even so," Kurt gives me a somewhat shy smile. 

I clutch the handle of my bag a little harder as we turn towards the school entrance. "So… are you coming to Glee tomorrow?" I ask, not knowing what to say. 

Kurt frowns at me. "Of course, silly. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well… none of you seems to be taking it seriously anymore. Ever since we couldn't compete at Sectionals."

"Well, but we still enjoy it," Kurt says. "Why should we spend more time with Glee right now, though? We will when we'll compete again, I promise."

I shrug. "We won't be competing next year either if Mercedes won't come back."

"Oh, Mercedes," Kurt rolls his eyes a little. "She will come around. She likes Glee."

"Then why did she leave?"

"Because she's a diva, Rachel, just like you," Kurt grins at me, and I smile back. Right now, the day seems to be at least sufferable. 

* * *

With a sigh, I shoulder my bag and turn to leave the classroom. Only one more class to go, I tell myself. Then I can finally go home. Unfortunately, that class is English—which means I'll have to hurry up a little more than usual, so I'll be there a little earlier for the test. 

Mrs Shannon's classroom lays on the other side of the building, which means I'm going to pass the lockers anyway, so I figure that I might as well drop some of my books off. 

Turning sideways to push the door open with my shoulder, I pull my geometry and history book out of my bag and begin to fumble with my key. 

I have just finished stroking my hair out of my face so I can open my locker when a cold blast hits me from behind. I gasp, but before I can even try to process what's happened, another blast hits me—though this time from the front. 

It feels like I'm suffocating. The cold makes my heart race and my throat contract, and a piece of ice that's stuck in my throat has me cough so badly that I think I'm going to throw up. My books are ripped out of my hands, and I hear them being crashed into the lockers nearby. 

"See, loser?" says Ian Darcy. "That's what you get when you try to play the hero."

With trembling fingers, I wipe the slushy from my eyes so I can at least look at the jock. Just in time to see him crumple up the cup, he's been holding, so I can duck my head as he flings it at me.

"Watch out," he hisses into my ear as he passes me. "Tomorrow, you'll be so dead, Man Hands. Gay Face's journey to the dumpsters will be nothing against that."

And with that, he leaves. 

I stand alone in the corridor, shaking and with tears burning in my eyes. I feel the ice run slowly down my back and my chest—at least it's not one of those herbal slushies they now offer—the smell would've been awful. 

My books have been dropped into the dustbin nearby, along with one of the crumpled cups. They're sticky with red and blue slushy and I know without having to open them that they're ruined. My eyes are brimming with tears as I pull my sports bag out of my locker and make my way to the girl's lavatory. 

Right now, this feels like the end of the world. It feels like the end of _my_ world. It's only Monday, and I already know that this is going to be the worst week of my life. I knew that the moment woke up this morning, but back then I thought it would be the worst for a whole other reason. Now, everything has just doubled down on 'the worst'. 

I'm on autopilot as I begin to wash the slush out of my hair and my skin. It never gets out completely, though—I will have to wait until my after-school shower to scrape the blue and red off my scalp. 

The tears that are welling up in my eyes make it even harder for me to check if there still is any slush on my face and I give up on it after a few seconds of pointless staring into the mirror. 

Throwing a look at the clock above the door, I quickly rush into one of the empty stalls to get changed into my extra clothes. I'm already twenty minutes late. Twenty minutes. And Mrs Shannon is the kind of teacher who gives you a slip for your parents to sign when you're _three_ minutes late. Perhaps she's even going to put me in detention, considering that we had our English test today. And every teacher hates it when students are late for a test.

With schoolbag shouldered and my sports bag in my right hand, wet strands of dark hair itching underneath my shirt, I bolt out of the room and hurry down the corridor. 

With my spare hand, I try to remove any evidence of tears from my face, but I know that it's pretty much a hopeless case. 

When I reach Mrs Shannon's classroom, I slow down a little to catch a glimpse of the students sitting in the classroom through the small window beside the door. They all have a worksheet laying in front of them and are scribbling hastily with their lower lip captured between their teeth. So, they're still writing the test. I can only hope that that's a good thing—Mrs Shannon wouldn't make a scene in front of the class during a test. Or would she?

Squaring my shoulders and taking a deep, bracing breath, I raise a hand to knock at the door. 

I can see how some students look up in confusion, their eyes following something that I cannot say. Or someone. Probably Mrs Shannon, who doesn't look pleased at all when she opens the door and steps out a bit. Her entire face is pinched, her brows are knit together. Although she's scary when she looks at me like this, it doesn't come even close to the fear you feel under Coach Corcoran's look. 

I squirm uncomfortably. From the ends of my hair, a drop of water drips down on my shoulder and trickles down my back. I swallow hard. 

"I'm _so sorry_ , Mrs Shannon. I-I- I ran into someone on my way to class, and they got their coffee all over me."

It's a bad lie, and my teacher sees right through it. Her eyes become narrow slits. 

"Is that so, Rachel?" she says. "Well, I guess you'll be writing your essay on the dangers of running in a crowded building in your detention on Friday, then."

I press my lips to a thin line. For a moment, I consider telling the truth—that it's not my fault, that I was slushied by some Titans. But then, Ian would find out that I told on him and his friend and I'd be even more screwed than I already am. 

"I'm really sorry, Mrs Shannon," I lower my eyes to my feet. "It won't happen again."

Mrs Shannon cocks her head. "I should hope so. Please stay behind once class is over—I want to talk to you about this."

"Of course, Ma'am."

She opens the door and steps back so I can get into the room. 

The curious, suspicious, _knowing_ looks of my class members pierce into my back as I make my way to my seat. They all heard what was said in the corridor seconds ago, and they all know that I was lying. Even so, I keep my head held high and pretend that nothing's happened. 

* * *

**_Student:_ ** _Rachel Corcoran_

**_Referral:_ ** _Attendance_

**_Actions Taken:_ ** _Assigned detention on Friday, 27th November_

**_Notes:_** _twenty minutes late for class, lied about the reason_.

I growl quietly as I fold the slip and tuck it into the pocket of my jacket. 

I feel absolutely awful as I make my way outside the school building. Santana has Cheerio practice today, so I'll have to take the bus alone. Sadly, Mrs Shannon took her time when writing the slip for my parents, which means I've missed the bus. The next one leaves in a quarter of an hour. 

Thanks, Ian Darcy. Thanks, Mrs Shannon. 

I glare at the sports bag that is dangling from my arm and hitting against my knee with every step I take. I'm already fed up with this, and I'm only halfway across the parking lot. 

"Rachel!" For a second, I slow down a bit. "Rachel!" But then I pick up my pace again—and I'm three times faster than I was before. This can _not_ be happening right now. 

My name sounds across the parking lot one more time, but I still ignore it. 

I can see the bus stop shelter a good hundred metres away from me, and I fasten my steps even more. _This_ is what my daily training on the elliptical is for—this is how it pays off. 

I'm not even slightly winded when I reach the deserted bus stop and drop down on one of the seats. My eyes are trained on the bus stop sign as though I was checking the bus lines and they stay there even when I hear a car stop right next to me and the window sliding open. 

"Rachel," says my father. "I know that you can hear me. We spoke about this last Thursday, remember? I said I would pick you up on Monday."

I pointedly turn my head away from him. Tears are welling up in my eyes, and I try to blink them away. Why— _why_ —does the universe seem to want to make life hell for me today? 

"Rachel, come on, get in the car," he pleads. 

I snort drily, but my lips remain closed. 

"Rachel, the next bus is going to take ages to arrive. This is ridiculous, sweetie, you're being childish."

I clench my teeth. "You do _not_ get to call me 'sweetie'."

"What?"

"I said," I spit. "You don't get to call me 'sweetie' anymore. And there's no way in hell I'm going to get in that car. I'd rather get in the car with someone accused of rape and murder." 

I cross my arms in front of me and turn away again. The sight of my father leaning closer to the passenger seat to get a better look at me has my stomach in knots. It's such a familiar picture, but it never felt more different.

"Rachel, come on."

"No."

I turn to him with my arms still crossed, my eyes set on fire with rage. I have a feeling that my look comes as close to my mother's angry glare as it can get, by the way that my father recoils a little. 

"You and _Mom_ taught me not to get into the car with strangers, and I don't know you anymore. You're a stranger to me, and I—won't—get—into—your—car!"

Hurt flashes across my father's face. "Rachel, you're acting absolutely childish."

"At least I'm not acting like a total asshole," I snap. 

"Rachel, that's-"

"No!" I jump to my feet. "Screw you! Screw you, _David_! You're a freaking cheater, and I don't want to have anything to do with you ever again! You ruined our family _last Friday_! So, I don't freaking care what we discussed last Thursday because you don't belong to this family anymore! I hate you!"

Without thinking twice, I whirl around and hurry down the street. I don't care that the walk from McKinley to our house takes over half an hour. I don't care that my sports bag is hitting against my knee again. 

My eyes are brimming with tears, and I furiously try to wipe them away. 

I wrap my arms around myself to warm me up. I'm only wearing a t-shirt underneath my jacket—my hoodie lays, covered in red and blue slush, in my sports bag.


	6. Acting Like That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post the other chapters (up to chapter 12) tomorrow.   
> (chapter title is the same-titled song by J. Lo)

** Chapter 6  
** **Acting Like That**

**Rachel.**

Of course, as I make my way home, it just has to start raining. All day long, there was not a single sign of an upcoming rainfall and yet here I am, soaked to the skin, with nothing but my ruined books to hold up over my head as I hurry down the street.

The remaining slushy that I couldn't get out earlier, is now running down my face and my neck and I can taste the artificial flavour of cherry and blueberries on my lips.

It mixes with the saltiness of my tears and it's just all a huge mess, and _I'm_ a huge mess. I shiver in my jacket. The jacket that is supposed to be waterproof but turns out not to be. The jacket that—surprise, surprise—my father got me as a present when I started at McKinley High. I only realise that now, as I sprint down the pavement and turn the corner into our street. 'Our street' as in the street with the familiar houses, the familiar neighbours and the familiar windows. The street with the house that has a plum tree in the front yard and no big front porch but a simple landing leading up to the front door.

I race past the tree and begin to fumble with the keys even before I come to a halt.

The rain is pouring down on me from the windowsill above me and my fingers are shaking so hard that I almost drop the keys twice before I finally unlock the door and stumble into the house.

The warmth inside makes me shiver even more. My clothes are sticking to my body like a second skin and my teeth are chattering. I throw a quick look at the clock on the other end of the hallway. It's 3:00 p.m. and on Mondays there're no Vocal Adrenaline rehearsals, so Mom should be home in around 30 minutes. If I hurry up now, she might not find out about the slushy incident at school. I can just do a quick wash for 15 minutes and then throw the clothes into the dryer and then she won't have to worry about this mess as well. I don't like to see her as worried and upset as she is right now. In fact, I hate it.

So, I quickly get out of my jacket and boots and rush into the washing room to run the washer. The rain has soaked through my sports bag as well and the slushy has gotten all over the bag. The water seems to have done worse damage than the slushy itself: now, the slushy has reached every fold and every corner and, with the water pressing down on the slush, the fabric of the bag seems to have absorbed the red and blue colour. I decide to just wash the bag as well.

Standing up from the cold floor again, hands put on my hips as I watch the washing machine drum start to rotate, I suddenly realise that I've forgotten one very important step in my entire plan. The shower. How could I possibly convince my mother that nothing's happened when there's probably still blue and red food colouring on my parting and my eyes are a red-rimmed and swollen?

I race upstairs and into the bathroom, turn on the shower so the water can get warm while I undress myself. Which turns out to be a lot harder than I hoped. The clothes are sticking to my wet skin and my trembling fingers are not helping either.

It takes me almost five minutes until I finally step into the shower and draw the curtain close behind me. It's a turquoise one with small dark blue and mint coloured triangles on it. For some time, my finger draws simple patterns on the curtain and my mind completely shuts down. I appreciate this time in the shower. It sounds rather strange to say this but, in the shower, I always feel safe. In the shower, I can always be myself because there's no one else around to judge.

But then, reality catches up with me again and I rush to wash my hair and wipe away all the evidence of the slushy attack from school. Strangely, I don't feel any better when I get out of the shower. The time of absolute nothingness and contempt in my head is over the moment the hot water stops hitting against my skin. Everything rushes back into my head as though it was just waiting to blast me again.

I stand in the shower, curtain drawn aside, frozen in my movement and gape into void. The incident at the dumpsters; the slushy attack in the hallway (and with two slushies, not just one); the referral form from Mrs Shannon and the detention on Friday. And finally, my father waiting for me in the parking lot of McKinley.

I reach for my big, fluffy towel before I can finish one more thought. Tears are welling up in my eyes again, like they did so many times already today.

I'm on auto pilot as I change into some yoga pants and one of my mom's hoodies—a dark purple one with a small gold star over the right breast. It's one of my favourites. And it's my mother's absolute favourite, so I know that, usually, she's not that fond of me wearing this one. But right now, I just need to snuggle into the big cosiness of this exact pullover and breath in the faint smell of my mother's perfume.

While I try to hang up my towel with one hand, I blow-dry my hair with the other. My eyes keep wandering to the small clock next to the sink. It's 3:20 p.m. I'm making good time.

With my hair only half-dry and my soaked clothes in one hand, I rip the door open and race outside. Just that my way gets blocked by something in the middle of the hallway and I crash right into it. No, not something. Someone.

"Oh my God, Mom!"

I stumble backwards, my arms flail about and the clothes fall to the ground. The only thing that keeps me from falling is my mother's strong grip around my wrist. She seems to have recovered far more quickly than I, and the shock that made her eyes widen seconds ago gets replaced by a worried frown.

"Rachel?" she asks and lets go of my wrist.

Her brows are knit together, her eyes wide in alarm. She knows me too well for my own good—she knows that something's off.

"H-Hi Mom," I finally manage through the sound of my own, ragged breath.

I bent down to collect the clothes from the ground. And to escape my mother's questioning, worried look. I know that, once she's captured me with her eyes, she's captured me in whole—I won't be able to stop myself anymore.

_Don't tell her. Don't tell her._

I look up at her. She has her head tilted to one side and her eyes are piercing into my own.

With one step, she stands right before me, one hand raised to lift my chin up, the other one stroking my wet hair out of my forehead.

_Do_ not _tell her._

"Rachel, honey," she stops short, her look wandering from my left to my right eye over and over again as though she was searching for answers. "What happened?"

"N-Nothing."

She doesn't believe me. Of course, she doesn't.

"Oh honey, I heard that you are running the washer when I came inside."

I try to duck away but she holds me closer. "Rachel, did they slushy you again?"

_No._

"Yes."

I want to slap myself. What was that about not telling Mom and not making her even more upset and worried than she already is?

"Oh honey."

She wraps her arms around me and pulls me close against her, drawing circles on my back and gently stroking through my hair. I bury my face in her shoulder. The wet clothes are dangling from my right hand and it must be freezing cold against my mother's skin, but she doesn't say anything.

"Are you alright, Rach?" she whispers into my ear and presses a kiss into my hair.

Slowly, I step back.

_No, I'm not._

"Yes, Mom, I'm fine."

The words leave my mouth far too hastily and my voice cracks just a little bit. Damn it. Why is it that I'm such a bad liar when it comes to my mom?

My lower lip dips between my teeth for just a split second, my toes tap against the wooden floor. Under my mother's observant gaze, I bunch the wet clothes in both my hands, staring at them as though they were the most interesting thing in the entire world.

"And how are you?" I ask almost sheepishly.

Mom sighs. "I'm fine."

No, she's not. She's a remarkably good actress but she doesn't act when she's home; when she's just Shelby—no titles, no awards, no fans attached. And Shelby can't fool me.

She's miserable.

"Come on, Rach," she gently takes the soaked clothes from me. "Let's get these into the dryer."

A bit reluctantly, I follow her downstairs.

'Let's get these into the dryer' might sound like an absolute benign sentence but it's more than just a simple sentence. And it's certainly much more than just a swift action as running the dryer.

It's what my mom always does when she wants to talk to one of us—my sister or me. She lets us help her do the dishes or fold up the laundry while she talks.

Usually, she's not the kind of woman to bail at something like a simple talk. She's rather the full-frontal-attack kind of woman. She asks people in her office and sits them down in front of the table. She savours every single second of silence while her victims—so to speak—shift and squirm in their seats. It's a sheer torment to them and a pure bliss to my mom. She confronts them with harsh words, though always true, and she tells them everything she wants them to hear and probably even more.

She doesn't need a distraction while she faces uncomfortable or unwanted conversations—she stares straight ahead at them.

But with Santana and I, she's different.

I don't think it's that _she_ needs a distraction, but that she wants us not to feel as though we were in a court room. She doesn't want us to think she's giving us her undivided attention, the best of her observing abilities, while she talks to us. It was like that when she had _the talk_ with Santana and I a good two years ago. It was like that when she talked to us about the matter of picking our High School.

And now it will be like that again.

My mother's steps are echoing through the house. She's still wearing her heeled boots and the blazer from work and I figure that she must've entered the house and immediately known that's something's up, not bothering to get out of her work clothes.

I bite my lips as I watch her crouch down in front of the washer. I already let on about the slushy-attack, but I'm determined to never let my mom know about Dad.

"Rachel, I _will_ tell Principal Figgins about this."

My head whips up. "No, Mom! No, it's no big deal, I-"

But the glare she gives me stops all the protests that were about to tumble off my lips.

"Rachel, it _is_ a big deal. And you know that I hate to see you suffering like this."

I lower my head. "But please don't make a scene."

"I won't. I promise, I won't."

She sighs deeply as she pulls my clothes and the sports bag out of the washer to put them into the dryer as well. And that's when she suddenly stops short. Her eyes wander from the wet, freshly washed clothes in her right hand to the soaked, not at all washed clothes in her left one. Slowly, her eyes find my face. "Honey, why are your clothes so wet? They're absolutely soaked."

I accidentally dropped them in the shower? I couldn't find my keys when I was standing in front of the front door?

I bite my lips. "I- uh- well, it was raining so badly earlier."

Mom frowns. "But the bus stop is not even 200 metres away from our house—there's no way you would get that wet."

She turns to the clothes again and runs her hands across the folds and under the hems, out of habit, checking for long-forgotten handkerchiefs and notes. The frown on her forehead increases. "What's that?" And she pulls out a neatly folded, though wet piece of paper.

"Wait!"

I totally forgot about _that_.

Mom raises an eyebrow at me.

"Well, I- when I got slushied, um, I- well, I was late for my English class and we had our test today and- and I couldn't possibly tell Mrs Shannon the truth—not in front of the whole class!" _Not ever._ "So, she- she kind of gave me detention."

I take a deep breath, bracing myself as I look down at my mother. But instead of the anticipated anger, she only looks concerned. Her features soften into a look of pity. "I guess I'll be talking to your teacher as well then."

I don't dare to say anything against that.

"Rachel."

I look up.

"You still haven't answered my question."

I bite down on my lower lip. I thought she'd forget it.

I squirm under her watchful eyes and try to look away, but she has me pinned into the air with her piercing look. "Well, I- she wanted me to stay behind after class was over so she could fill out the referral form, and I-I missed the bus, so-"

Before I can say anything else, Mom bursts, "You _walked_ all the way home?! In the pouring rain?"

In the pouring rain and wearing trunks and a t-shirt and a waterproof jacket that's not waterproof. Yes.

"Yes, I did."

"Rachel, why didn't you call me?"

I try to escape her look but just then, she starts the dryer and stands up from the ground. There's no way out anymore. Not that there ever was one.

I wring my hand behind my back where—hopefully—she can't see it.

"I just- I wanted to walk. I needed to."

_Shut up, shut up, shut up._

Mom frowns. "What do you mean 'you needed to'? Did those kids wait for you at the bus stop, Rach? Did they harass you?"

I vehemently shake my head. "No. No, nothing happened. I just- I needed some time-"

_For myself_. I want to say, but the sharp ringing of my phone interrupts me.

My fingers fumble with the two strings of the hoodie as I pull my phone out of the pocket to accept the call.

"Hello?"

There's a small crack on the other end of the line.

And then: _"Rachel?"_

My lips become a thin line. "No."

_"Rachel, I want to talk to you about-"_

"And I don't want to talk to you ever again."

I turn away as my mother raises an eyebrow at me. My fingers are shaking so hard that I almost drop my phone.

_"Rachel, I understand that you're angry but-"_

"Angry? You think I'm _angry_? I'm not angry, I hate you."

My father sighs. _"But I still won't have you talk to me like you did today."_

"Good thing that I'm never going to talk to you again, then."

_"This behaviour is unacceptable-"_

"The only behaviour around here that's unacceptable is yours. And also, I don't freaking care what you think about my behaviour. I don't need to be judged by an asshole."

"Rachel!" Mom scolds.

_"We will be talking about this, Rachel. I'm still your father-"_

"You're nothing!" my hand collides with the wall as I whirl around to storm out of the room. "You're nothing in my life anymore! You fucked up! You fucked up and you ruined everything! I hate you! I hate you so much!"

I choke on my words. Tears are welling up in my eyes and I can't keep them at bay any longer. "I wish you were dead. I'd take that over this shit any day!"

And with that, I hang up the phone. I almost drop it on the floor, that's how hard my hands are shaking. And on top of that there's now a bruise forming on my hand that's burning as though it's set on fire.

"Rachel."

I didn't even notice that my mother stepped out into the hallway up until now. She steps closer to me and when she takes my hands in hers and begins to examine the small bruise, I can't take it anymore. With a strangled sob, I crash into my mother's arms. "I hate him," I sob into her hair. "I hate him so much."

I feel my mom's shaky breath stroke over the back of my head as she folds me into her arms. "Oh honey."

And then she says nothing for some time. Tears are streaming down my cheeks and the sobs that escape my lips are shaking my entire body and make me shudder against my mom. The earth seems to stop spinning for a moment, everything shudders to a halt as I cry into my mother's hair and hold onto her like a lifeline. But then, she steps back and, my hands still tucked safely in hers, she leads me into the living room and sits me down on the couch.

When she sinks down next to me, I see the tears that are shining in her eyes. But she tries to blink them away as she strokes over my head and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Rachel," she says, and I can't help but feel shaken at the sound of her broken voice. "Rachel, look at me, please."

So, I look into her eyes. It doesn't help. If anything, I feel a lot worse at the sight of her dark eyes, brimming with tears. There's nothing but sorrow and worry there and I just want to take it all away.

"Honey, I know you're upset," she says softly. "But I don't want to hear you talk like this ever again, alright? To anyone."

I avert my eyes. I want to promise her that I won't do it so badly that it almost hurts. But I also know that I won't be able to keep that promise—my father just makes me so incredibly angry that I can't think straight.

So, I simply say, "I'm sorry, Mom."

"It's all right, honey."

After a second, she adds, "This is hard on all of us."

She looks at me with this sad, worried, understanding mom-look that she has and slowly settles into the cushions of the sofa, patting the empty space next to her. "Come here, sweetheart."

Nothing has ever seemed more inviting than my mother's open arms on our couch with the rain pouring down on our roof and lashing against the windowpanes. I tuck myself into her side, breathing in the smell of her perfume that's only faint underneath the everlasting scent of mint and chocolate, and I can't quite tell what it smells of. Something sweet; something expensive. Something that never fails to make me feel so very at home.

"Rachel, what happened today?"

I snuggle deeper into her arms, burying my nose in her shoulder.

"Come on, baby, talk to me," she coos into my ear.

I shake my head. "No, Mom. Everything's alright."

"Rachel, clearly, everything's not alright."

She's right; it isn't. One reason more not to tell her.

Slowly, Mom reaches for my chin, lifting it up with two fingers until I can't help but look right into her eyes.

"You know that you can tell me, honey, anything. Anything that bothers you, anything else. Just tell me."

It's that look in her eyes again. That look that always gets me to cave in. I bite my lips.

_Do not tell her._

"Last Thursday, we agreed that he would pick me up from school on Monday. I'd forgotten about it, but- but he hadn't."

So much for not telling her. Why can't I just keep quiet for once?

But instead of the worry and sadness that I'd expected to see on my mother's face, there's only relief and a tiny bit of anger.

"What did you do?" she asks quietly.

I close my eyes. What did I do?

"He wanted me to get into the car because the next bus would've arrived 20 minutes later, but I— _refused_."

If my mom's in any way hurt by the mention of her cheating (and probably soon-to-be ex-) husband, she doesn't show it. She is a Tony Award winning actress after all.

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Refused?"

"I-I said he's not a part of the family anymore and that I wasn't allowed to get into a stranger's car," I murmur into her shoulder. "And then I just walked away."

For a moment, Mom's completely quiet. She just squeezes my shoulder and sighs.

Eventually, she says, "I want you to apologise to him. No, Rachel, hear me out, please! –I know that you're upset about this, but you were very rude, and I do not appreciate that. You can just send a text message, that's absolutely fine with me, honey, but I want you to do it now."

She slowly stands up from the couch, pulling the sleeve of her blazer over her hand to wipe all evidence of tears from my cheeks. "I'm going to make us some hot chocolate. Write that text message now, honey—get it done and over with."

With one finger, she taps against my phone in the side pocket of my yoga pants. Then, she turns and heads into the kitchen.

I'm left alone on the couch. Alone with my phone in my hands, staring down at the display while my finger hovers over the chat with my dad.

Finally, and with trembling fingers, I begin to type.

**iMessage**

**Monday, 23 rd November **

**3:52 p.m.**

**_Rachel:_ ** _I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier. Didn't expect you to be there._

I most sincerely hope that he can sense my lack of interest (and sincerity) through my text. If it wasn't for my mother, I would never have apologised in the first place. And also, I don't want him to think that I feel my refusal (and my yelling) wasn't totally justified.

I turn off my phone and drop it onto the cushions next to me, staring into void as I listen to my mom clattering with the dishes. She's humming something to herself but it's too quiet for me to find out what it is.

In the corner of my eye, I see the display of my phone flaring up.

It's not my father who texted me, though.

**iMessage**

**Monday, 23 rd November**

**3:54 p.m.**

**_San:_ ** _forgot my keys. Open the door in like 3 min, don't wanna wait. Geez, the rain._

**_Rachel:_ ** _I know. Want Mom to make you some hot chocolate? She's just making some for me._

**_San:_ ** _yesssss, girl. Hot chocolate is what I need. Coach ended our diet today, so I'm gonna stuff myself with Oreos tonight._

**_Rachel:_ ** _So counterproductive._

**_San:_ ** _delicious though. There's the bus stop. Don't forget to open the door!_

**_Rachel:_ ** _I won't._

"Mom?" I get up from the sofa. "Can you make some hot chocolate for Santana as well? She's here in, like three minutes."

"Of course, honey."

She doesn't sound as enthusiastic as I'd like her to. Instead, she sounds as if she's been fighting back tears.

Two minutes later, I find myself positioned next to our front door, leaning against the wall and peering outside the window. The raindrops are dancing across the street and lashing against the cars and windows. And on the other end of the street, a good hundred metres away from our house, I spot my sister, sprinting towards our driveway. She's still in her red Cheerio uniform but at least she's wearing a waterproof jacket that is actually waterproof and not just labelled as such.

I wait five more seconds until I open the front door and step aside. Santana races through the front door and crashes into the glass door, though not too hard.

"Oh my God, my legs are killing me," she pants and turns around, grinning breathlessly at me. "Thanks, Rach."

I close the front door. "How was Cheerio practise?"

"Don't ask," my sister bends down to unlace her shoes. "Coach made us run. Half a mile. And we just finished our diet. That woman is crazy!"

"But you still just set a new world-record for running from the bus stop to our house."

She nods proudly. "Yeah, I'm awesome."

She smiles. Unlike me, my sister seems to have had a wonderful day. She saw her boyfriend again after the weekend, she hung out with her best friends, she didn't get slushied and she didn't meet Dad in the parking lot. And also, her diet was ended today and she's going to enjoy some Oreos for the first time in weeks.

Shaking the raindrops out of her hair, she turns around and opens the glass door. "Hi, Mom."

With a smile (and three cups of steaming hot chocolate), Mom steps out of the kitchen and beckons us into the living room. "Hello, sweetie, how was your day?"

The three of us sit down on the sofa and Mom hands us our cups.

"Awesome," answers Santana with a smile. "Yours?"

My mother's smile wavers for just a second. Enough for me (and my sister) to notice. "As good as it gets."

"Well, how good exactly is 'as good as it gets'?" I want to ask, but I keep my mouth shut.

'As good as it gets' can mean anything and everything. It can mean 'the best day of my entire life'; it can mean 'I've had better days before'; or it can mean 'it was awful. I don't want to talk about it'. And it can probably mean a whole lot more.

We all avert our eyes for a moment, sipping our hot chocolate. Santana sighs. "Rach, how did your test go?"

My eyes find my mother's. "I-I was late for class."

"Oh. … _Oh_! Who? Was it Darcy again? Oh my God, I'm gonna-"

"Santana!" my mother sounds as dangerous as she sounds tired. "Do we really have to talk about violence at school again?"

My sister recoils a little. "Of course not, Mom."

"I should certainly hope so!"

Mom emphasises her words with a sharp shake of her head before she takes a sip from her cocoa again.

"Mrs Shannon let me write the test anyway, but I only had ten minutes left. I think I did well anyway," I say.

Santana tilts her head to one side. "Of course, you did. You're a smart-oreo after all."

"A smart-oreo?"

"Something Brittany said—it made my day."

I smile slightly, dipping my nose into my hot chocolate.

"Well, girls," Mom says after a while. "I'm going to mark some assignments now."

She takes our empty cups and turns. "Rachel, your phone lays on my desk at 5:00 p.m. sharp and that's not up for debate."

With that, she leaves. I can feel Santana's curious, though confused look on my face. "Why do you have to give Mom your phone? Are you grounded?"

I shake my head, and, with a sigh, I tell her where on a scale of 1 to 10, the happenings of my day lay. She gapes at me openly.

"He actually thought you were gonna let him drive you home?"

I shrug weakly. "I guess so."

"And he called to tell you how rude you are?"

"Yep."

"What an asshole."

"And Mom made you apologise?"

"She did."

"Such a saint."

I nod. A saint indeed. I'm sure that I would never force my child to apologise to my cheating husband for telling him the truth—even though it wasn't a nice sort of truth. But my mother, naturally, doesn't like it when my sister and I are being rude, and she's a stickler for the rules.

At that moment, the display of my phone flares up. And this time, it actually is my father.

**iMessage**

**Monday, 23 rd November**

**4:18 p.m.**

**_Dad:_ ** _Thank you for apologising, Rachel. I'm still going to call your Mom. Today was not okay._

My head whips up. Santana, who read the text along with me, pales. "No way."

She reaches for her phone.

**iMessage**

**Monday, 23 rd November**

**4:18 p.m.**

**_San:_ ** _if you call Mom, I'm gonna kill you._

**_San:_ ** _and I mean it. You don't get to call her. Ever again._

She looks up at me. Angry tears are shining in her eyes.

"He can't," she whispers. "She won't be able to take it. I mean… she already can't take it when anything's just reminding her of him. Imagine what would happen if he called."

"She'd be broken."

Santana nods. "She's a saint. A freaking invincible warrior-saint. But he's her weak point."

Truer words have never been spoken.

I keep that in my mind as I make my way upstairs over half an hour later. The door to my mother's study is slightly ajar and I knock softly against the doorframe before I enter.

I find my mom sitting behind her desk, eyes closed, papers spread in front of her, an open, red pen laying loosely in her hand. Her head is resting against the wall and a few strands of dark brown hair have come loose from her bun and are falling over her forehead.

My mother might be a remarkably good actress—and if she wanted to, she could fool anybody—but once she's asleep, you can read her like an open book.

_…And how are you?_

_…I'm fine._

_…How was your day?_

_…As good as it gets._

With a deep, watery sigh, I put my phone on the stack of folders on my mother's table.


	7. Week Without You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there  
> so... i may or may not have forgotten to update this ups. but i'll just do it now.  
> thanks for the kudos and stuff. feel free to leave a review. (Leave. A. Review.) jk (rowling)   
> (i should stop) 
> 
> chapter title is the same-titled song by Miley Cyrus

** Chapter 7  
** **Week Without You**

**Shelby.**

Despite that Darcy-kid's threat, nothing happens all week long. 

Rachel told her about it amid tears Tuesday morning before school. She was jumpy all morning—anxious—and then, when they were about to leave the house, she held Shelby back and finally blurted out what was going on. 

_"Mom."_

_At the gentle tug on her sleeve, Shelby stopped and turned around. Santana was already in the car, probably trying to fall asleep again._

_The air smelt of rain, that rich scent of raindrops on the grass and the wet, dark bark of the trees. Though it's not as refreshing as it would be if it was summer—instead, there's something rather depressing about the aftermaths of a rainfall in late November. And it's not helping either of them._

_"What is it, Rachel?"_

_Her daughter stood in front of her, a scarf wrapped around her neck and one of Shelby's old raincoats draped over her shoulders—since her own proofed to be a stiff. At that moment, she suddenly looked incredibly small in it._

_"Mom, I-" she bit her lip. "I don't want to go to school."_

_Shelby's eyes widened. "What? Why, honey?"_

_Tears were welling up in her daughter's eyes, and Rachel shifted from one foot to the other. "I just- I don't want to."_

_"Oh, honey."_

_Gently, Shelby raised her hands to the girl's cheeks to wipe the tears away that had yet to fall. "Your father won't be trying to give you a ride again, Rachel, I'm sure of that."_

_But Rachel shook her head. "It's not about him, Momma. I-I- yesterday, they threw Kurt in the dumpsters again, Ian and his Titan-friends. And I-I told them to stop. That's- that's why they slushied me yesterday, Mom."_

_She tried to escape from Shelby's gentle grip on her chin but failed. "A-And he said I-I'd be dead today."_

_"Oh, Rachel."_

_She pulled Rachel in a deep hug. Outside, she was calm and composed—sympathetic. In the inside, she was seething with rage. How dare that stupid jock to threaten her daughter?!_

_She tilted her head forwards to press a kiss on Rachel's forehead. "You're going to be alright, Rachel. Come on, we'll tell Santana to keep an eye on you, and I'm going to talk to Principal Figgins right away, alright, honey? Nothing's going to happen."_

_Rachel shook her head against her mother's shoulder. "You don't know that."_

_"Yes, I do," Shelby leant back a little to look into Rachel's brown, watery eyes. "I'll ask Santana to watch out for you, and Santana's going to ask Noah to do that too, so there's no way that Darcy-kid could come even close to you, okay?"_

_She placed two fingers under Rachel's chin to force her to look up. "I think you should go to school today, honey. Don't let them win this, okay? They want you to be afraid of them but—let me tell you—the only ones that are afraid are they. They're afraid that they're going to fail at life so they want to see other people fail so they can feel better about themselves. We don't want them to get that kind of satisfaction, right?"_

_Rachel shook her head, sniffing. "No."_

_"Okay," Shelby placed another kiss on her daughter's forehead. "Let's go, honey. I promise you're going to be okay."_

Of course, Santana promised right away that she wouldn't leave Rachel's side all day long. And the day after. And the day after that as well. The whole week long if it was necessary. Hell, her whole life long, even. 

Even though Shelby was touched by her oldest daughter's care for her sister, she had to pinch her a little for her language. Again. Santana has always been one for the bad language and while it can be quite amusing from time to time—not that Shelby would ever admit that to her daughter—it still isn't appropriate most of the time. 

Although Santana (and Noah) promised to keep an eye on Rachel, and Shelby had a long (and uncomfortable) conversation with Principal Figgins (uncomfortable because Shelby was as angry as the mother of a bullied child can be and didn't try to hide it even the slightest bit) that ended with Principal Figgins calling Ian Darcy's parents under Shelby's watchful gaze, Shelby was on pins and needles all week.

At work, she checked her phone at least twice every hour to see if either Santana or Rachel called her and every time the phone rang, she was ready to jump up and race to her car to drive to McKinley High at a record time. 

This entire situation is nothing, but stress added to exhaustion and a week of getting close to no sleep at all.

Of course, Shelby tries to sleep. She goes to bed every night at 10:30 p.m. so that she (philosophically speaking) can get at least 8 hours of sleep. But most days, sleep doesn't come until 4:00 a.m. when she's already tossed and turned for 5 hours. The dark circles underneath her eyes can't be erased by two cups of coffee in the morning anymore, and the concealer isn't doing an exceptionally great job at the moment either. 

Needless to say, that people start to notice. Because after a morning of work, she looks more like death warmed up than her usual strict, no-nonsense self. Her stern glare seems to have lost some of its threat and danger, and her strict stance is a little slouched. 

With a deep sigh, Shelby closes the door to her office behind her and turns to lock the door. 

It is Friday afternoon, Vocal Adrenaline's rehearsals are over since half an hour that Shelby spent marking some assignments, and she's absolutely ready to go home for the weekend. 

It is Friday afternoon, and her family is already a mess for one week. Last Friday, an hour ago, she found out that her husband is cheating on her. Last Friday, around this time, hell broke loose in the house of Corcoran. 

One week without him and she's still not sure how she's going to manage. 

She's not dependent on her husband. Not financially dependent on him in the least, and—she tells herself—not dependent on him in any way at all. Ever. 

But that's not true. She _is_ dependent on him. On his bad jokes and small kisses when she's in a bad mood; on his longing touch and caring smile when she suddenly misses New York and the theatre and hanging out backstage so much that it hurts; on his warm hugs when she comes home after a long day of work. 

She's not dependent on him as an instrument—a number in the system—but on him as a person. She's dependent on his gestures and, first and foremost, on his love. 

And knowing that she doesn't have it anymore might be her downfall after all. Who would've thought that it would be love of all the things to bring Shelby Corcoran down?

"Mrs Corcoran?"

Shelby whirls around. "God, Jesse!"

One hand placed firmly against the wall, supporting her as she recovers from the initial shock, she eyes her student with a not-so-stern glare. 

"I'm sorry," the boy says. "I didn't mean to scare you."

He looks at the cup of coffee in his hands for a second and then hands it to her. "You look like you could need this more urgently than I."

"Oh, thank you," Shelby stammers.

She shoulders her bag and slowly steps away from the door, proceeding down the hallway. The coffee in her hands is steaming hot, and she can't help but roll her eyes a little at the smell. Coffee has been her saviour in the last few days. 

"What is it, Jesse?"

"Um… I just- I wanted to ask if I might use the auditorium tomorrow afternoon. For dance rehearsals with Andrea."

Shelby arches an eyebrow at him. "Dance rehearsals with Andrea?"

"A-a-and Marc!"

"And Marc," Shelby's lips curl in slight amusement. "Why would any of them need another dance rehearsal, Jesse? They are managing the choreography perfectly fine."

 _Perfectly fine._ Usually, 'perfectly fine' is not nearly enough to the most ambitious show choir coach in the world, namely Shelby Corcoran. But right now, she couldn't care less. Because if she allowed her students to rehearse in the auditorium tomorrow, it would mean that she'd have to come too. But tomorrow is Rachel's dance recital. 

Dear God, the recital!

"But Coach, Andr- they asked me to practice some of the dance parts with them. And I couldn't possibly say no, right? That would be downright rude."

Shelby rolls her eyes. She unlocks her car and uses her elbow to open the driver's door. When she's finally thrown her purse and the few folders, she carried onto the passenger seat, she turns around again. 

"I'm sorry, Jesse, but if you need a reason to go out with Andrea, you're going to have to find yourself something else," she says and watches in satisfaction as the boy blushes a dark shade of red. "I can't let you use the auditorium unsupervised, and I have neither the time nor the motivation to spend my Saturday afternoon at school just so you and Andrea have an excuse to spend some time together."

She turns to get into the car. "Thank you for the coffee, Jesse, I did indeed need it. Have a good weekend."

With that, she closes the door behind her and starts the engine. 

She tries to concentrate on their conversation as she drives home. On the way, Jesse blushed when she hit home with her assumptions, or how he was trying to cover up his initial motivation. 

But then she turns into the driveway to their house and, along with the engine, stops every single thought on _something else_ in her mind. 

Then, she's forced to face the things at hand again. 

With her purse hung over her shoulder and some books and folders balancing in one hand, she unlocks the front door and slips inside.

This Friday, neither of her daughters are home, and this time she knows for sure. Santana has Cheerio practice, and after that, she's at Quinn's for some hours, and Rachel has her last dance lessons before the recital tomorrow afternoon. 

The recital that she will probably— _most likely_ —have to face her husband for the first time in six days. That she will have to look him in the eyes and not crumble and break down in tears at the very sight of him. But she fears that that's exactly what's going to happen. That she won't be able to hold herself back. 

She's thinking of asking Cassie to come. So that Cassie can act as her shield—and, later on, as her secret weapon as well. Or rather as her not-so-secret weapon. Because she's very sure that Cassie wouldn't even wait until 'later on' with her attack. Which is the only thing that is holding her back from asking her best friend. 

Shelby feels incredibly sorry for Rachel. Her brave and beautiful and talented baby girl who has to put up with so much this week. Who was so excited about her recital but now is a bit afraid of the outcome of it. Because she knows—or at least she expects her father to come, and, being the empathetic girl, she's always been, she also knows how difficult it is going to be for her mother. For all of them. 

And Shelby can't help but dread tomorrow to arrive. She doesn't know if she can face him already, she doesn't know if she won't be a sobbing mess by the time he walks through the door. She doesn't know if she's going to be able to sit through the entire recital, knowing that he's somewhere in the room. _Somewhere_ in the room when he's supposed to be right next to her, holding her hand. 

With an exhausted sigh, Shelby shrugs off her jacket and puts her shoes into the shoe rack. She goes upstairs and drops off her bag and her folders in her office before finally working up the courage to get into the master bedroom. Because that's what it needs her now to enter her own bedroom: courage. Because everything reminds her of him when she's in there. The empty, unused side of the bed, the lack of one or two spread clothes on the carpet, the missing wristwatch on his nightstand that he almost always forgets. 

The empty hangers and deserted drawers in their closet. Her closet. Or is it legally still theirs? 

She tries to think of that as she begins to pick out clothes to wear for the afternoon. 

Legally. Is it legally hers or his? Or theirs? And does 'theirs' include Santana and Rachel as well or only her and David? 

Legally. Legally Blonde. She saw it twice when she was still a Broadway actress in New York. A great musical. 

Shelby closes the right door of the closet and opens the left one. _The_. Not 'his', not 'hers', not 'theirs'— _the_ closet. No titles, no reminders, no memories attached. 

This quiet rambling in her own mind exhausts her to no end, and when Shelby finally sinks onto the sofa downstairs in the living room, she feels like she could sleep for a year. Slowly, she pulls her phone out of the pocket of her hoodie and switches it on.

**iMessage**

**Friday, 27th November**

**4:34 p.m.**

**_Cassie:_ ** _hi there, Patti LuPone. How are you doing?_

**_Shelby:_ ** _Could be better._

**_Cassie:_ ** _uh I'm gonna whip his ass._

**_Shelby:_ ** _Cassie…_

**_Cassie:_ ** _alright, fine, geek._

**_Cassie:_ ** _let me at least slap him across his stupid face? If you won't even let me crush his balls._

**_Shelby:_ ** _Why do you want to get arrested, Cassie? I've always wondered about that._

**_Cassie:_ ** _it's called being badass. You're just such a stickler for rules. Why didn't you become a police officer? Or a politician?_

**_Shelby:_ ** _Anyone can be a politician these days, Cassie._

**_Cassie:_ ** _Okay, back to serious again. Have you told your parents?_

**_Shelby:_ ** _…_

**_Cassie:_ ** _do it NOW!_

With a sigh, Shelby drops back into the cushions of the sofa. Cassie is right, she should call her parents. She has to call them, even. Because if she waits any longer, it's just going to end in her parents and her sister being angry (or at least slightly disappointed) that she didn't tell them. 

So, despite her anxiety about this, she decides that it will, in fact, be done now. Just like Cassie commanded—just like she knows she should. 

For a moment or two, Shelby gets stuck in an internal debate on who she should call first—her mother or her sister. She knows for sure that she won't call her father first, that's an easy decision to make. Because her assumption that he would start searching for his old (and totally inoperative) air gun the minute he'd hang up the phone probably isn't that far off. And she can't risk him shooting himself in the shoulder or something. 

Her thumb hovers over the display of her phone for some seconds, then she closes her eyes and swipes to the right. 

She lets it ring once. Twice. Three times. Although she's a trained singer, her lungs are starting to ache for air. Four times. Perhaps she can try again later today. Five ti-

_"Hi, Shel—Parker, please get off me right now, I won't say it again—Shelbs. Is that you?"_

A small smile makes her lips curl for a second at the sound of her mother's voice—gentle with her daughter and stern with her grandchild. 

"Yes, it's me."

_"It's great to hear from you again, you haven't called in weeks. But wait just a second, dear, the boys are here and—Jonathan, Parker, listen to me for one second. I have Aunt Shelby on the phone. I'll be in the kitchen, alright? Use that time to put the candies back into the shelf so that I can at least pretend to be surprised when I find them empty. And Jonathan—Jonathan! You do not grab your brother like that, do you hear me? Be good, the walls have ears in Philadelphia."_

For a moment, it's quiet on the other end of the line, in the apartment in Girard Estate, Philadelphia that Geraldine Corcoran moved into 27 years ago. Then, a door clicks shut, and Shelby hears her mother sigh.

_"Uh, they are a gift as much as they are a pain in the neck."_

She chuckles quietly. "Why are they at yours anyway? Is Amy there as well?"

_"No, no. I thought we'd agreed that you'd all come to visit your father and me together after Christmas."_

"Mom, we're Jewish."

 _"Oh, I know,"_ her mother laughs. _"Anything for my grandchildren. Though what about you, Shelbs? Are you celebrating both again, like last year?"_

Shelby bites her lips for a second. "I think this year it's just going to be Hanukkah."

Her mother misses the heavy impact—the serious meaning—of her words. 

_"Oh, wonderful! So, you can tell the girls then that you're visiting after Hanukkah."_

"I will."

_"Anyway, I didn't answer your question. Your sister is not here, no. It's just the boys. Richard is gone for the weekend—some meeting in Los Angeles—and Amy just wanted some time to herself, I guess."_

"She certainly deserves it," Shelby draws one knee to her chest, holding it close. 

As long as her mother talks about her sister and the boys and how wonderful life in Philadelphia is, everything's just fine.

_"Is it raining in Lima as well? We haven't seen the sun in days over here."_

Shelby taps one finger against her knee. "It is. But it's still too warm to snow."

 _"Oh,"_ her mother sighs. _"I don't really believe in white Christmas anymore. Or white Hanukkah—if that's what you want to call it."_

"I have given up on that one ages ago."

Her mother laughs quietly. _"Oh, by the way, your stardom has reached the youngest."_

"Oh, no."

_"Oh, yes. Jonathan told me that some of his—female—classmates were gushing about you the other day, and he told them that you are his aunt. They've been all over him ever since and—let me tell you—he's not amused. He doesn't appreciate you being a famous actress at all."_

For a moment, Shelby allows herself to forget the goings-on and laughs. It feels good to do so—liberating. "Oh, that poor kid. Give him a kiss from me, will you?"

_"I don't know if he'll accept that. He's very against kisses lately."_

"No wonder that he's not happy with his classmates being all over him, then."

 _"Truer words have never been spoken,"_ her mother pauses for a second and clears her throat, shaking off the laughter. _"So, what about you? How are you doing, darling?"_

The laughter that was bubbling in her throat half a second ago is now stuck between her teeth. Her chest contracts almost painfully as she sucks in a quiet gasp. 

"I- Mom, I-"

She can literally hear her mother shoot up. 

_"Oh God, Shelby, what is it? What happened?!"_

"No, Mom, don't worry, I- perhaps you should sit down."

 _"Sit down?"_ her mother sounds genuinely upset. _"Goodness, Shelby, what's going on?"_

Tears are welling up in her eyes, and she squeezes them shut for a moment, taking a deep, bracing breath. She can hear her nephews play in the background,, and she focuses on that as she tries to form the sentences in her mind without really thinking about them. Because thinking about them hurts. Hurts like nothing else. 

"Mom," her voice is shaking. "David- he-he cheated on me."

She is met by complete silence. There's not even a clock ticking somewhere in the house. She hates the noise of a clock ticking—it makes her restless. But right now, she'd appreciate it very much. 

"Mom? Are you still there?"

_"Yes, I am. Shelby, oh dear…"_

She raises a hand to her mouth to stifle any sound that might force its way up her throat and bites down on her knuckles. 

_"Shelby, I'm so sorry. I-I don't even know what to say,"_ her mother sounds as if she's fighting back tears as well. _"When did you find out?"_

Shelby swallows hard. "Last Friday."

_"Last Friday?!"_

"I know. I know, I'm sorry," she sits up a little. "I know I should've called. But I- I just- I _couldn't_ , Mom, I just couldn't."

_"I'm not mad. I understand. Oh, darling, I understand."_

Shelby presses her eyes close to keep the tears at bay, but they spill anyway. "I found out last Friday, Mom, that's one week, and I- I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do, Mom, I- Oh God."

With one hand, she covers her eyes for a moment, in a sorry attempt to compose herself. "He's been cheating on me for three years. _Three years_ , Mom!"

_"Three years? Oh, darling, that's awful."_

"And he just- he just left, Mom. I kicked him out that afternoon, and he came on Saturday to pack some clothes and- I haven't heard from him since. Not once, Mom. He's just—he's gone."

A sob escapes Shelby's lips, and she raises her hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. 

_"Oh, baby…"_

"But he wanted to give Rachel a ride after school on Monday because they'd agreed on it that last Thursday and she- God, she was such a mess."

_"How did they respond, the girls?"_

Shelby runs a hand over her forehead. "They're devastated, Mom, they're so angry. Rachel has been a mess all week—she's had some trouble with some jocks at school as well—and she's miserable, and Santana—well, you know Santana. She's keeping it all in, I think. But they're furious with him, Mom. They-they hate him."

_"Darling, they don't hate him, they-"_

"Yes, they do. You should hear them talk. They say such awful things about him, and I-I get it; they're angry. I'm angry too. I'm furious. But- but at the same time, I-I still love him," a strangled sob shudders through Shelby's body. And another, and another. "I love him so much, Mom. And it hurts. It hurts so damn much to lose him."

_"Oh, Shelby. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Don't cry, darling, please, don't cry."_

She feels like a little girl again. She feels so lost and so alone and so—so helpless. "I can't, Mom. I don't know what to do. I didn't see it coming, I thought- I thought he loved me."

Her mother gasps quietly, probably failing to suppress the tears. _"I thought so too, dear."_

"For three years! He hasn't loved me for three damn years. All that time, he- he was in love with someone else. And I- God, I feel so stupid!" she drops her forehead into her palm. "I feel so stupid for not finding out earlier. I should've- I should've noticed that something was off, right? I shouldn't have missed that my husband doesn't love me anymore, right? All along, I thought I knew him like no one else knows him. I of all people should've noticed!"

_"Shelby, don't do this to yourself, please! This doesn't change anything."_

"Why am I even the one with the Oscar in this house?" Shelby laughs drily, not a hint of amusement in her voice. "He's the better actor of the two of us."

_"Dear, Shelby, listen to me. I'm going to call your father and drop the boys off at his for the weekend and then I'm going to come to you, alright?"_

Shelby sits up straight. "Oh no, Mom, you don't need to come over."

Though that's a total lie. She needs her mother here; she wants her mother here. She wants her sister here as well, wants them to take her in their arms and make everything alright again. But, first and foremost, she wants her husband. She wants the last three years never to have happened; she wants him to never have cheated on her, and she wants him to love her just as much as she loves him. 

_"Shelby, this is not up for debate. I'm going to come over. Though not today—the car ride takes almost nine hours and I don't want to drive in rainy conditions and darkness."_

"Mom, tomorrow is Rachel's dance recital and-" 

_"One reason more to come."_

Shelby shakes her head. "Mom, he's going to be there too. And I-I don't know if I can handle that."

_"Oh, darling."_

"I'm pretty sure I'm either going to yell at him or break down in tears, but—I don't think I can do this."

For a moment, her mother is completely quiet. Then, she says, _"Ask Cassie to come with you. She loves to see Rachel dance anyway, so-"_

"But Cassie might just kill David," Shelby interrupts the older woman. 

_"It's either her or me."_

"Or Santana."

 _"Or Santana,"_ confirms her mother. 

For a few seconds, both women are completely quiet.

Then, with a deep sigh, wiping away her tears, Shelby stands up from the sofa. "Mom, the girls are going to be here soon, and I still have to make dinner."

Her mother's sigh sounds equally as defeated. _"Alright. I love you, Shelby."_

"I love you too, Mom. Bye."

_"See you tomorrow, darling."_


	8. Crowded Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the longest chapter yet. hope you like it.
> 
> chapter title is the same-titled song by Selena Gomez (feat. 6LACK)

** Chapter 8  
** **Crowded Room**

**Santana.**

"Nana is going to visit us for some days," informs Mom me only seconds after I stepped into the kitchen.

She has her back turned to me and chops some carrots with a killer-knife (and at a killer's speed) and the kitchen hood is making such loud noises that her calm and (allegedly) composed voice almost drowns out in the kitchen. Usually, my mom always hugs me when I come home from school, she never keeps her back turned.

"You told her?"

Mom pauses for a second. "I did."

Placing my bag on the kitchen table, I sit down. "So? What did she say?"

"That she's coming over."

Now that the carrots are chopped into fine dices, Mom can't delay her turning around anymore. She has washed her makeup off her face and her dark hair is done into a messy bun. The traces of tears are undeniably there; the upset and sorrow still clearly written into the faint lines on her forehead.

I tilt my head to one side. "Did you tell Aunt Amy as well?"

"No, Nana told me she's enjoying a weekend alone—the boys are in Philadelphia and Richard is in a meeting in Los Angeles."

I frown. I never knew that my mother is one to conjure up excuses; usually, she would never let something like 'enjoying a weekend alone' stop her from calling her older sister. But if it even took her a whole week to tell her mother… I guess we're all meeting a side of her that no one ever knew. Not even she herself. It's the messed-up Shelby Corcoran that fights her way to the front right now when before it was always just Shelby Corcoran, the actress and Shelby Corcoran, the mother and Shelby Corcoran, the no-nonsense teacher and show choir coach.

Those Shelbys are strict and calm and composed—they know what to do and they know what to say and when to say it. They know what life's like—or at least they think they do.

But when my mom is looking at me like this—with her tired eyes piercing down into mine, her brows knit into a faint, everlasting frown and her shoulders slumped just the slightest bit—she's none of these Shelbys. Then, she's the Shelby Corcoran whose soulmate-husband cheated on her for three years and who's left alone with two teenage daughters and a broken heart.

And I can't help but wonder if I look different as well. If there's a change in my look and my stance and my entire demeanour. Perhaps, I muse, I look like my normal self but with my mother's sad eyes. Or I look like my mother but with my own face.

Or perhaps this is just much harder on her than it is on me and I don't look any different at all.

Mom turns away again and walks over to the shelf to get some herbs. I have no idea what she's cooking but it smells delicious. While my mom managed to coax Rachel into learning how to cook with her, she never got me to do it as well. I will just live on take-out once I'm in college, I guess.

With a sigh, I reach into my bag to get my phone and check my messages. There's nothing interesting, though, and I put it back again, watching my mother fall into a routine of chopping vegetables on a cutting board and then swiping them into the pan.

"Mom?"

She turns a bit, though with her eyes still facing the things she's stirring. "Yes, sweetie?"

"Did you ask Cassie already if she wants to come to the recital tomorrow?"

Mom arches an eyebrow at me. "Why should I ask her?"

I lower my head a little and pick at my nails. "Well, she always likes to see Rachel dance."

"Is Cassie bribing you into coaxing me to ask her to come?"

When I look up at my mother, she has her hands put firmly on her hips and her eyes are narrowed into small slits. She eyes me for a second or two and leans back with one eyebrow raised. "How much?"

"Twenty bucks and a picture of you in 1998 with red hair at a Hootie and The Blowfish concert."

Mom laughs a little and the sound makes my heart swell for a second.

"That's a fair deal," she says with a grin. "I can't say that I wouldn't like to see one of those pictures again."

I shake my head. " _Hootie and The Blowfish,_ Mom! And I thought you had taste in music."

"It were the 90's, sweetie, you can't blame me for that. Though, I must admit it wasn't one of my brightest moments."

She seems to be caught in her memories for a second and her eyes find something behind me that I can't see. "And it was her idea, I might add. The red hair _and_ the Hootie and The Blowfish concert."

She shakes her head just the slightest bit and says, "And no, I haven't asked her to come."

"You have to, though, I'll only get the money and the picture if I succeed."

"You should remember never to do any business with Cassie again."

Mom turns to stir in the pan again. "I'll think about asking her."

"You're the best, Mom!" with a satisfied grin, I lean back and watch Mom lifting one of the lids to poke a knife into the potatoes.

In the corner of my eye I see the display of my phone flaring up and I switch it on to check my messages again.

"Mom, Rachel's bus is stuck in a traffic jam. She's twenty minutes late."

"Poor girl."

"Nah, at least there's more food for me."

My mother glares at me and for a moment everything feels absolutely normal. My mother glares at me and I grin at her and Rachel's stuck in a traffic jam and it's just another Friday.

But then it's not anymore—the moment is over, and Mom averts her eyes and her shoulders slump again.

I haven't told anybody about the goings-on in my family, not even Noah—and he's asked me at least four times every day if something's wrong. But Mom asked us not to tell anybody just yet—because the media would find out about it and then we wouldn't have another quiet minute until the Kardashians conjure another scandal—and so I don't say anything. So far, there are only six people in the entire world who know about this, and five of them are family.

And to say that it's kind of getting to me would be the understatement of the year. Because I have no one to talk to about this. No one that wouldn't break down in tears (or try their best not to) the second I mention my father. I don't want to talk to my mom about these things because she's already so upset, and she doesn't need to worry any more than she already does. And then I feel like I can't really talk to Rachel about this either because she's my little sister and she's the one that's supposed to come to me with her worries, not the other way around. So, it's a good thing that Nana's going to come. Even if just for a few days—I feel like we could all use another person in the house, some kind of tower of strength.

A sudden thought surging through my mind has me sit up straight at the kitchen table and I watch my mother carefully as I raise my voice. "Mom, do you think Gran knows?"

As I expect, my mom pauses for a second. The lines on her forehead deepen and I wonder for a second if she's already thought about that.

"I don't know, sweetheart," she says after a while. "But I guess she would've called, right?"

"I guess so," I begin to pick at my nails again. "Are _you_ going to tell her?"

"No. No, I think that's your father's story to tell—I'm not going to take that burden from him."

She sounds so bitter—so angry and so hurt—that I wince a little at her sharp voice. With a huff, Mom places the lid on the pan and turns to steep a rag in the sink to clean the kitchen counter.

"How do you think she's going to react?"

For a second, Mom stiffens, her hand gripping the rag a bit tighter, movements becoming a bit jerky. "I—don't—know, sweetheart."

Everything about the 'sweetheart' sounds wrong. She's… tense, a little on edge, and the soft 'sweetheart' following a genuinely vexed 'I don't know' sounds somewhat insincere.

But then, she deflates, and her frown disappears and gets replaced by pure guilt. She wrings the rag out and turns towards me. "I'm sorry, Santana, I'm just a little—stressed."

She turns off the kitchen hood and suddenly it seems oddly quiet. With a tired sigh, I stand up to help her set the table.

We still instinctively get four plates and four sets of cutleries out of the cupboard—and it's still always a breaking point. We try to cover it up with nervous laughs and hurried movements but in the end, we all know that we're nowhere near getting over him.

Together, we sit down at the kitchen table and Mom helps me to the stir-fry she's made. Or at least that's what I think it is, but I can't be sure. It doesn't really matter anyway because it's delicious and I never question my mom's cooking.

"When is Nana going to arrive?"

Mom tilts her head to one side, tapping her fork against her plate. "I think sometime in the late afternoon. The ride from Philadelphia to Lima takes over eight hours after all."

"Fair enough. That gives us enough time to get some flowers for Rachel's crazy dance teacher."

Mom's head whips up. "God, yes. I would've forgotten that hadn't you said something."

"Seems that I'm he coordinator around here."

But the joke falls flat as the meaning of my words sink in. Because before, my father was the coordinator in the house of Corcoran. He would remind Rachel and I of the appointments of the day—he would call after Mom to "don't forget to be here early today—the chimney sweep comes today". He would always write notes on small post-its and pin them to our fridge or our doors so that we won't forget. And sometimes there was a small post-it saying 'I love you' hidden in the corner of our mirrors—though the 'I love you's were mostly for our mother and Rachel and I often got a 'I'll be thinking of you' and 'Good luck today'.

And it never failed to make us smile.

But now, even just the memory of the notes brings tears to our eyes and my hand clenches into a tight fist underneath the tablecloth.

"What would I do without you?" says my mom, clearing her throat.

And I play along, as if nothing has happened. "You'd be pretty much lost."

The smile on her lips is weak but at least she's trying. 

* * *

As was expected, Rachel is absolutely thrilled to hear that her grandmother is coming to visit. But she's also done for the day when she stumbles through the front door, complaining about her dance teacher who "killed me today. I swear that woman is crazy, she made us do the whole recital four times and then we had to run. _Run_." And about the bus driver that was in a worse mood than she and barked at everyone and everything within twenty metres.

So, we call it a night and withdraw into our rooms to get some much-needed sleep.

Sleep that gets cut short when, early in the morning, my bedroom door cracks open and Rachel taps across the room and crawls into my bed.

"Hey," I murmur into her hair as she snuggles into my blanket. "What's up?"

"I woke up at five and couldn't fall asleep."

I'm too tired to even raise an eyebrow at my sister. "Do you think Mom's already up?"

"I don't know, I didn't hear anything. But we shouldn't wake her up, she hasn't slept all through the night all week."

"How do you know?"

Rachel turns a little to look at me from tired, brown eyes. "She cries. She thinks I don't hear but I do—the ceiling is so high in the hallway that it carries every sound."

I squeeze her shoulder gently.

That's like our mother—keeping it all in throughout the day only to pour out her heart in the middle of the night.

"Should we tell Nana when she's here?"

I shake my head. "No, that's not our decision to make. She'll tell her."

"Are you sure? This is Mom we're talking about, San."

"Exactly," I prop myself up on my elbow. "And Mom's trying to act all strong to protect _us_. She won't do that with her own mother."

I can literally feel Rachel's uneasiness as she tucks herself into my side, but she doesn't say anything. So, I simply rest my chin on the crown of her head and wait for sleep to come to my little sister once more. I don't have to wait for too long.

Mom stops by almost two hours later with a small smile on her lips at the sight of Rachel in my arms.

"I was thinking about making pancakes for breakfast today," she whispers to me and quietly crosses the room to draw the curtains aside. "How does that sound?"

I smile. "Awesome. Can you make some blueberry ones?"

"Anything for you, sweetie."

And she leaves the room again. 

Sometimes I think my mom being a Tony (and Oscar) Award winning actress is not necessarily a good thing. Because she's far too good at hiding her true feelings and her own emotions—she's far too good at replacing them with those of a role she plays.

It's a trait that she's given to me and Rachel as well—though Rachel is far more talented than I am. But still, we're all good at playing a role—we're all good at pretending to be fine and fun and perfect. Although that's been rather hard for my mother lately, I feel myself flourishing in this situation. After all, I've been pretending to be fine all week long. Just like Rachel has been pretending that it's totally normal to cling to your big sister and her boyfriend out of fear that some stupid assholes are going to kill you at the first chance.

I feel Rachel stir in my arms only five minutes later, rubbing her eyes.

"Hi there, sleepyhead," I run my fingers through her hair with a grin. "You just missed your opportunity to get customised Mom-pancakes."

"I did?" Rachel yawns. "Yikes!"

"If you ran, you'd probably still get yours."

But my little sister shakes her head. "No, I need to rest today. I have to keep my energy level as high as possible for the recital this afternoon—I can't move too much today."

"Is that your way of telling me that you're not going to come grocery shopping with me today?"

"Why did you ever even volunteer to do the Saturday grocery shopping if you never want to go on your own?" Rachel scrunches up her nose a little and slowly inches towards the edge of the bed.

"Hey," I try to poke her side but she's already out of my reach. "I used to get money for that—Mom just decided one day that it's a daughterly duty and now I have to do it without the payment."

Rachel grins at me, stretching her limbs and straightening herself up. "I hope you don't consider a business career—you'd be awful."

"And I hope you don't consider a career in sass—you'd be horrible."

Rachel simply shrugs and, pulling the hem of her shirt down, she turns and leaves my room.

It's a calm morning after that. We have breakfast together and Rachel and I praise our mother's pancakes for ten minutes straight until she threatens us to eat them all by herself. We shove them into our mouths after that and ignore our mother's half-hearted glares.

"So," I say some hours later when I come downstairs into the living room to find my mother sitting on the sofa on her own. "Did you ask Cassie? I really want that picture of you."

Mom laughs—though it sounds a little strained. "I'll ask her right away. But only if you'll go to the grocery store now. And don't come back without some flowers for Ms Vipond."

"But Rachel hates that woman."

"Even so. It's a kind gesture—a 'thank you'—for organising the recital. That's not to be taken for granted."

She waves both her hands at me. "Shoo, shoo, girl. I won't ask Cassie otherwise."

"That's blackmailing, Mom."

"No," she shakes her head. "That's your mother telling you what to do."

And who am I to disobey my mother?

* * *

When I turn into our street, loaded with two bags of grocery shopping and a bouquet of some kind of flowers, Nana's car is already standing in our driveway. The front door of our house is ajar, and I can hear my little sister's excited chattering.

"So, a friend from my ballet group is going to pick me up in half an hour so we can meet with all the others and have some ice-cream together before the last rehearsal."

"Ice-cream? In November?" Nana's voice sounds and my lips curl into a smile on their own accord.

I haven't seen her since my aunt's birthday in September and the occasional phone calls just aren't the same as meeting in person and talking to her face-to-face.

In my grandmother you can really notice than she's not only a grandmother to my sister and I, but also my mother's mom. She's incredibly fun to be with, she knows almost every single board game there is, and she makes up amazing bedtime-stories on the spot. She makes the world's best chocolate chip cookies and takes a devilish amount of pleasure in finding the best hiding spots for them and her strawberry-cheesecake was probably sent to us straight from God and his horde of angels above. She always insisted on being called Nana because she thinks that 'Granny' sounds like a woman in her mid-eighties who lives alone with twenty kittens, but she embraces her life in retirement with a huge grin. So, my grandmother is pretty much amazing and absolutely chill. But she's also the woman that made _my mom_ stop humming _I'm The Greatest Star_ with a single glare and an arched eyebrow. And my mom loves humming that song while she's cooking. She's the woman that has a perfect aim when it comes to throwing soaked cleaning rags after disobedient, naughty children and that can smell a lie a mile off. Long story short, she's the kind of woman that you don't want to get in trouble with because if you do, you'll soon be reconsidering your meaning of the phrase 'busted'.

"Well, we wanted to go for pizza instead," Rachel explains, her voice cracking because that's how excited she is—not only about the recital in a few hours but also about Nana's arrival. "But our dance teacher said it would make us bloaty afterwards and she said it would show in the skinny tutus."

I can literally hear Nana roll her eyes as she says, "I really don't like that dance teacher of yours."

Before Rachel has a chance to answer, I finally step into the hallway of our house and Nana's smile broadens as she spots me in the threshold.

"Look who's become even more beautiful in the last three months," she hurries to my side, pulls me into her arms and kisses my cheek, all the while careful not to crush the flowers I'm carrying.

"Hi Nana," I smile softly, and she runs a hand over my hair.

She doesn't ask how I am and probably didn't ask Rachel and Mom either. It's a rather good thing she didn't since I feel like neither of us could have given her an answer. We're not thinking about how we feel—or at least we're trying not to.

Giving me no time to protest, she takes the shopping bags from me and makes her way into the kitchen to start unpacking. I close the door with my foot and turn to show Mom the bouquet I bought. "I didn't want to spend too much on it, but I tried to find the most beautiful of the smaller ones."

She nods with a small smile, taking the bouquet from me. Her fingers graze the petals and leaves gently as she examines each and every flower with such care that I almost get jealous of them.

"Thank you, Santana," she says after a while and raises a hand to cup my cheek, though her fingers only fleetingly touch my skin. "They're beautiful. I'm sure Ms Vipond will be very happy about them."

Then, she turns around and crouches down in front of the open closet underneath the stairs to get a vase to put the flowers in until we have to leave and I try not to frown at her sudden display of such tenderness.

Beside me, Rachel snorts quietly. "I doubt it."

But she says it so quietly that Mom doesn't hear.

"Santana," Nana's voice sounds from the kitchen. "Your sister tells me you've been very engaged with your cheerleading squad at school lately."

I nod, reaching out to help her unpack the groceries but she gently slaps my hand away. "That's right. Coach's been going crazy on us these last weeks. I think she doesn't want us to forget her cruel methods over the holidays."

"No, Coach Sylvester is just pure evil," Rachel shakes her head. "She just wants to torture you."

"She's only so hard on me because I'm co-captain. Quinn has much more extra practices than I."

"She does?" Mom places the vase with the flowers on the kitchen counter. When she moves to help Nana, the older woman doesn't slap her hand away.

Perhaps she's just happy that Mom's even up and walking around instead of laying in bed with depressions.

"She even has to come on Saturdays sometimes and Coach always makes her run a quarter of a mile more than we."

"Poor girl," Nana shakes her head.

I can see how her eyes from time to time wander between Mom, Rachel and I—as if she's checking if either of us is holding back tears. But there's no reason for either of us to cry right now.

"San, could you help me with the foundation of my makeup?" Rachel suddenly asks. "You always do it best and I want to look pretty tonight."

"You always look pretty, Rach."

But I get up anyway and wave my hands at her. "Go, go. I don't want you to freak out when things get stressed later on."

And with a last wary glance at our mother and Nana, we leave the room and make our way upstairs into Rachel's room. As soon as the door closes behind us, Rachel heaves a sigh.

I drop down into her armchair. "You didn't actually want me to do your foundation, did you?"

She shakes her head. "Not only, anyway. I wanted to give them time to talk. You know… get it out of the way before the recital. Otherwise things are just going to stay tense."

"But there was nothing tense about them."

"You weren't there when Nana arrived," Rachel grimaces a little. "Nana wanted to talk to Mom so badly but Mom was in her best everything's-fine mode and Nana knew it was just an act. They were literally staring at each other for two minutes straight and I thought Mom would just break down and cry, but it was Nana who caved in. She just said that Mom wouldn't get away just like that and… that was it."

I cross my arms in front of my chest and watch as Rachel holds onto the bedstead and stretches her toes. I grimace at that sight.

"But they weren't tense just now."

"Yes, they were," Rachel pulls herself up to stand on tiptoes. "Didn't you see how Nana looked at Mom when she put the flowers into the vase?"

I shake my head. "No, but I noticed how… intimate Mom was. The way she touched my cheek earlier… it kind of creeped me out. She looked so casual but then again she's a really good actress and I just had the feeling that something's up."

"See? They need to talk about this," my sister does a plie and straightens up to her full height again. She tils her head to one side. "Should we sneak downstairs and try to listen in on them?"

I shoot up, my fingers closing around her wrist. "No way, Rachel. Do you know how pissed Nana would be if she found out? How pissed _Mom_ would be? And they would find out—you know that."

Under my stern glare, Rachel's shoulders slump a little and she turns away from the door again. "Then let's at least make the best of our time up here."

I smile. "Yes, Rach, I can do your foundation."

She squeals a little but—like every happy emotion everyone of us is feeling lately—it's slightly chastened and I stand up to get my makeup out of my room. Though not without sending my little sister a glare telling her not to try anything dumb (like trying to listen in on Nana and Mom).

It's not my intention to eavesdrop as quietly make my way downstairs—at least that's what I'm telling myself. It's not my fault that my ears are pretty good and that my feet stop moving at the end of the hallway when I suddenly hear my mother's voice sounding out of the kitchen.

"I know. Geez, Mom, _I know_ I shouldn't think like this." She sounds like she's on the brink of tears. "But I just can't help it. I waste hours of sleep on trying to remember every single conversation we've had in the past year—no, in the past three years—and I try to figure out what I missed and what he said that I thought was some innocent comment or a joke to-to cheer me up but could've been a clue if I- if I hadn't been so blind and so damn stupid."

"Shelby, you're _not_ stupid-"

"Then tell me how I didn't see it coming. How I didn't sense that my own husband isn't in love with me anymore."

Her voice is so heavy with tears that it makes my heart clench. The strength in it is slowly wavering to reveal an absolutely broken and helpless woman and that pains me more than anything else. Because, in my mind, my mother always was this superhero person—bad things happen, that was always clear to me. But they happen to other people and not to your own family—and certainly not to your own mother. And if something gets my mother—this incredibly strong, undefeatable woman—to break down then everyone else in this world is absolutely screwed.

Nana swallows hard. "Shelby, darling, no one ever sees things like this coming."

"Yes. Yes, they do. You did. You and Dad saw it coming—you noticed that you were not in love anymore and you tried to fix things, but you never tried to fool any of us. You didn't break each other's hearts, you-" Mom chokes up suddenly and I hear my grandmother's voice as a faint humming, a faint whispering of soothing words and an occasional "Oh Shelby" and I'm pretty sure that this is what dying feels like. This absolute sorrow that’s filling my heart up and making it hard for me to breathe. This pain that surges through my whole body and leaves me shaking and strangely empty.

"I don't know how I'm going to survive this, Mom."

I can't bear this anymore.

Perhaps my footsteps give me away as I whirl around and storm down the hallway and into my room. At least I manage not to slam the door shut before I fling myself onto my bed and muffle a tyrannizing scream with one of my pillows.

_I don't know how I'm going to survive this._

I scream into my pillow, somehow enjoying the way it's ringing in my ears but is inaudible to everyone else and I bit back my tears until my lower lip should actually be bleeding. And then I get up and get my makeup from the bathroom next doors and make my way upstairs again—this time as fast as I can, though, and without once trying to hear anything that's said.

"I thought we shouldn't try to listen in," says Rachel with both eyebrows raised as I sneak back into her room.

I shake my head. "And we really shouldn't—trust me."

Rachel watches me closely as I sit down in front of her, ankles crossed, and eyes still trained on the makeup in my hands. I'm sure I wouldn't be able to keep my shit together would I look into Rachel's sad puppy eyes right now. So, I just keep staring at my fingers, even when I raise them to Rachel's face and begin to apply the foundation.

"What did they say?"

"I don't remember."

_I don't know how I'm going to survive this._

That's the worst lie I've ever managed.

We stay in Rachel's room until the doorbell rings. 'In Rachel's room' as in, bodily we're there, but our minds are always somewhere else—mostly downstairs in the kitchen or somewhere in Lima (perhaps a stinky hotel room?).

I race downstairs to reach the door before neither Mom nor Nana can even get up and I'm panting so hard that I can only stammer a breathless, "Hi. Rachel's just finishing packing."

The girl that stands to my opposite looks at me from big (baffled) blue eyes and nods. She probably didn't expect a winded Co-Captain of the Cheerios to open the door to Rachel Corcoran's home.

"Wanna come in?" I open the door a bit further, but the girl shakes her head.

She stares at me for another second or two, swallows hard and asks, "Are you Santana Corcoran? The Cheerio?"

I try to look as cool and composed as I can right now—while my emotions are riding a rollercoaster. "Sure. Why do you ask?"

"I'll try to get into the cheerleading squad next year too," she explains a bit shyly. "Coach Sylvester said I was too young and too sloppy to get in this year."

"Yeah that's just Coach," I say with a wave of my hand. "She's really picky with her new recruits."

Above me, I can hear the quick steps of my sister and I step back to let Rachel race past me to hug the girl. "Hi, Katie. Sorry you had to wait."

"No problem," says the girl, Katie, apparently.

Rachel turns to me to hug me goodbye and her features harden for a second. "Don't be late, okay? And—and tell Cassie not to make a scene—I'd be so embarrassed."

"I don't know if I'll be able to hold her back," I whisper into her ear. "And he'd absolutely deserve it."

"Even so. Mom doesn't want anyone to know just yet."

Rachel holds me a little tighter. "See you later."

And then she bounces back and whirls around with a smile that's so big that it couldn't possibly be real.

Us Corcorans are good actresses.

One hour later, I receive (with the broadest grin yet and a proud look on my face) two photos of my mother when she's 20-years-old and has her curly hair dyed bright red but kept out of her forehead with a black bandana. There's a crowd of jumping, squealing, screaming freaks in the background and in the left corner of the picture I can even see a part of the stage that the band _Hootie and The Blowfish_ is currently occupying.

Hootie and The Blowfish. I simply can't help but cast another slightly appalled look at my mother.

Cassie is driving and Nana sits in the front because "I'm the oldest" and I still don't understand how that can count as an actual argument. Whenever Cassie's driving, my mother turns into a nervous wreck because apparently the blonde woman once managed to crash Mom's new car into a tree. So, I keep thinking it's a good thing that Cassie's driving—that way, Mom has another reason to be nervous and doesn't have to think about the upcoming events.

"Of course, I expect nothing but perfection,” says Cassie just now and enters the roundabout with a jerk so that I am howled to the other side of the car and almost bang my head against my mother’s.

"Jesus, Cassie!"

Gently, Mom pushes me upright again, rubbing her left shoulder. "Could you please try harder _not_ to kill us?"

"You're such a drama queen," Cassie rolls her eyes.

I smoothen out the pictures on my knees and grin back at the 20-year-old version of my mom.

"I'm going to frame this and put it right next to your Tony," I tell my mother. "As a gentle reminder that you're now a much better person."

"You're exaggerating, Santana."

"Am I really?" I raise an eyebrow at my mother. "You're wearing bell-bottoms and a bandana, and your hair is red. _And_ you’re doing that rock 'n’ roll gesture."

"How do you even know that those are bell-bottoms? You can't see my lower legs.”

I roll my eyes. "Cassie told me.”

"Cassie! Do you _want_ my children to blackmail me?”

Cassie simply turns into the driveway in front of the dance studio and stops the car. For a second, we're all relieved that this horror ride is over. But then we remember what comes next, and so, we stay perfectly still.

I clear my throat and carefully stuff the pictures in my mother's purse before handing it to her. "Let's go?”

No one moves. "I promised Rachel that we were going to come to the changing room to wish her good luck.”

Slowly, I move over to open the door and get out. My mother looks a little pale as she does the same.

"Alright.”

But it doesn't sound alright at all.

With a long, quivering inhale, Mom squares her shoulders and raises her chin up just a little.

"Alright,” she says once more and actually manages a small smile. "Let's go.”

There's this tense but deep understanding between the four of us—this unspoken knowing that makes us all wince every time a door is closed. Pity, above all, fills me as I look up into my mother's eyes and see the battle in them. But it's the anger that makes my fists clench.

It feels like the way from the car into the foyer takes us hours when it actually doesn't take more than 40 seconds. My mother's steps are fast, the sound of her heels against the stone floor echoes off the walls and makes the few people in the hall look up. Before I can even start to take everything in, Mom has already received our tickets and presses one into my hands.

"So, where's the changing room?” she asks, hastily tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She actually knows where the changing rooms are because this isn't the first recital that’s held here, but she seems absolutely nervous right now and so, neither of us says anything.

I simply turn around and lead the way down the hallway on the left where a double door separates the public from the backstage area. The voices of a horde of excited girls sound from the changing rooms on the right and as one door is opened, a wave of perfume flows out into the hallway. A girl in white tights and a dark red leotard with her pointe shoes in her hands steps out, red hair in a neat bun, and for a second her eyes widen, and she stands rooted to the ground.

"Oh my God, you're Cassandra July," she breathes in awe. "You originated Claire in _Once More_. You were extraordinary!"

Her hands find her own flaming cheeks. "Would you mind taking a photo with me?"

I can see how Cassie has to fight the urge to roll her eyes as she agrees to the photo and orders me to take a picture with the girl's phone.

"Thank you so much," says the girl and whirls around to disappear into the changing room.

She doesn't even try to keep her voice down as she tells the other girls. "Oh my God, girls! _Cassandra July_ is out there in the hallway."

Over all the squealed 'Oh my God's and 'No way's and 'Who's, there's a cheerful, bright voice sounding. "Oh, so they made it on time."

Then, the door opens again and Rachel, all dressed up and with one pointe shoe already on her feet, beams at us. "I thought you'd never come."

"Oh, come on," I grin at her. "You know how Mom is when going out. Only Cassie's absolutely suicidal driving methods got us here on time."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Excuse me?"

Sound Cassie and Mom's voices from behind me.

"Cassie!" Rachel steps around me to hug the blonde woman. "I didn't see you in forever."

"You Corcorans are such drama queens," but Cassie smiles anyway.

"And you love us for that," Rachel turns to our mother and, for just a second, her broad grin wavers a little. But she quickly recovers. "Did you get your tickets? Sit down in the third row the seats that are the farthest in the middle—Katie and I checked them earlier to see which ones are the best seats."

I roll my eyes, though only a little. "Sure, Rach."

"Good luck, sweetheart," says Nana with a smile, rubbing my sister's arm.

Mom gathers her up in a deep hug—which is surely not only for wishing Rachel good luck but also for composing herself. "I'm already so proud of you."

"Me too. Break a leg, Rach."

Mom sends me a half-hearted glare. "I'd rather you don't."

"Thanks guys," Rachel is already halfway through the door again. "I have to go stretch now and everything! See you afterwards."

And with a last, excited wave of her hand, she disappears in the changing room again.

Before anyone else can even so much as blink, Cassie takes my arm and pulls me forward. "Let's go, I don't want to have to take a thousand pictures with hundreds of little prima donnas."

In any other situation, my mom probably would've burst into laughter but now she's too tense to even manage a small smile. It ends up as a grimace stuck on her face—eyes narrowed just a bit and a smile that gets replaced by her lips pressed into a thin line.

The foyer is much more crowded as we step through the door.

"Only a quarter of an hour until it starts," Mom informs us and, at the sight of all the people (people that could be my father), she reaches out to take Cassie's hand. Her voice wavers a little. "We should go and find our seats."

She and Cassie go ahead, and Nana and I follow them. My mom is holding her best friend's hand as though her life depended on it and Nana's brows are tightly knit together when I look at her. She has a fierceness to her look that it sends shivers down my spine and it's only when my grandmother's head whips around a second time to cast a look behind us—as if to check again—that I get who she's looking at.

I whirl around.

There, at the other end of the foyer, the door swinging shut behind him, stands my father. The man that's caused so much pain in my life and in the life of my mother and my sister. The man that always was a source of love for me and that now doesn't bring anything else than hatred to my mind. And sadness. And betrayal, suspicion and confusion. Anger is bubbling in my inside.

Neither Mom nor Cassie have noticed his arrival so far.

I take my time to examine him closer. I long to see the dark circles underneath his eyes, the evidence of tears on his cheeks, the way his shoulders slump a little and his hair seems to have lost some of its glow. But I can't find anything like that on him. He looks perfectly normal—as though he's had two weeks of calm nights and tearless days and absolute certainty.

It makes me even angrier. I want him to suffer like we're suffering and more. I want him to feel as though his life is breaking apart around him and there's no way for him to stop it.

My eyes are piercing into his and I try to put as much disgust and anger and accuse in my look as possible.

At that moment, my mom turns around to face us.

"Mom, Santana, a-"

The words get caught in her throat, the unfinished sentence looming over us like a dangerous threat, and she turns white as a sheet.

For a second, I think she's going to faint. Her perfectly rehearsed show face wavers to reveal absolute distress and so much pain that it's knocking the air out of me.

But then she tightens her grip on Cassie's hand and raises her chin a little more. And, squaring her shoulders, she sends him a look of pure rage and incredulity, and turns away.

"Come on."

Her voice is cold as ice and her sharp words can probably be heard miles and miles off and although I know the anger in her voice isn't directed at me, I feel shivers running down my spine.

She holds her hand out to me and I take it.

Neither of us looks back but I can still see my mother's face crumble into absolute hopelessness as we enter the auditorium.


	9. Another Way to Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we've got a little Shelby and Shelby/David backstory in this one. reviews? (no i'm not greedy lol)
> 
> chapter title is the same-titled song by Jack White and Alicia Keys

** Chapter 9  
** **Another Way to Die**

**Shelby.**

It feels like she's suffocating.

Tears are pricking in her eyes and the pain that fills her chest is so bad that it drowns out every other feeling. She can't hear anything but her blood rushing through her head, can't feel anything but pain—not even her own heartbeat.

The knowledge that he's there, in this building, in this very room, weighs down on her—almost crushes her. Her mind is tearing itself apart over deciding whether sadness or anger should rule her consciousness and her fists clench and unclench in her lap over and over again.

The lights are dimmed, the conversations have stopped some minutes ago and now she's supposed to listen to the cranky Ms Vipond—the craziest dance teacher in the entire world—talking about the incredible work and effort that all of them put in this recital and blah, blah, blah. And Shelby sits there and doesn't even try to focus for more than a second. Everything feels so blurry and her thoughts are spiralling around her mind, apparently trying to make her break down. She certainly feels like it—on her way to a breakdown. And she's not walking, but she's running towards it.

Everything in the past two weeks was leading up to this moment and she naively thought she was prepared for this. No, not prepared, but at least a lot more ready. Now that she actually has to face it, she feels like she's just going to cave in and have a meltdown in the middle of her daughter's dance recital. Perhaps, she's going to end up in the hospital, tied to the bed because they fear she's going to kill herself or kill her husband or kill Ms Vipond who's talking far too long right now. The question of the custody of her children would be sorted out pretty quickly that way; two signatures and she'd no longer be her daughters’ mother in the eyes of the law. She'd forever be in the psycho ward of the hospital and her daughters would only be allowed to visit between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m. on weekdays and only in the company of a supervisor because who knows what their crazy mother might do to them?

Shelby's fingers tap against the plastic cupholder on the side of her armrest, her nails occasionally scraping over the plastic. She sits perfectly still apart from that movement—her back is as straight as it could be, and her ankles are practically glued together.

The lights turn off and the stage lights up and a sharp elbow collides with Shelby's ribs.

"Shelby!" hisses Cassie into her ear and finally—for the first time in what feels like hours—Shelby opens her mouth and lets the air seep out of her lungs again.

"Are you okay?"

As an answer, Shelby's fingers continue to tap against the cupholder.

Onstage, a few girls in their beautiful dark blue tutus begin to dance and she narrows her eyes a little. Rachel is not among them. And she's grateful for that because she couldn't possibly concentrate on her daughter dancing right now. She's on pins and needles, her heart pounding like mad and not at all at the same time and her mind racing a mile a minute or perhaps a hundred miles.

"Wow, that's not a pointed foot. That's anything _but_ a pointed foot. Jesus, what kind of moron is their dance teacher?"

At least, Shelby's mind is functioning well enough to get her to nudge her best friend in the side. "Cassie!"

But then she goes right back into her state of sitting straight and tapping against the cupholder and thinking of nothing else but his presence in this room.

She even goes as far as thinking of letting her eyes wander just a bit to see where he's sitting but she knows that it will bring her nothing but pain and so, she lets it be.

Around her, the people suddenly begin to clap, and it takes Shelby a second or two to notice that the six girls onstage have finished their dance. She feels immediately bad for that. She knows how it feels to perform in front of an uninterested audience and she doesn't want anyone to feel that way—especially not such young girls. And it's not that she's uninterested, she tells herself. But she's just so angry and so nervous and so, _so_ hurt. 

Once, she claimed to know the man that stood to her opposite just some ten minutes ago. She claimed to know him and to love him and she claimed that he loves her just as much. But he doesn't. He does not love her, and she doesn't know how to cope with that knowledge.

Shelby Corcoran is not a woman of many romances. Not at all. Actually, she can count the number of lovers she's had in her life on the fingers of one hand.

A therapist she visited after her parents' divorce told her that she might have to face some uncertainties and insecurities with relationships in her life—'fears of commitment' is what the woman called it. And Shelby really struggled to cope with that in her teenage years. She didn't let any boy close to her out of fear that they might break her heart, she didn't have her first kiss until the very end of her senior year in high school, and when it finally happened, she was so afraid of what was to happen next that she stayed home for two days, crying her eyes out over something that could maybe, possibly (not certainly) happen in the future. Only when the boy—Eliot Parker—had shown up in front of her bedroom window with a bouquet of flowers, telling her how much he liked her and that he wanted to apologise because it was never his intention to upset her, she finally got over herself.

Eliot was her first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first everything. And he was perfect— _they_ were perfect. And then they weren't anymore, and Shelby went off to New York to become a famous Broadway actress and Eliot Parker never heard from her again. She forgot the heartbreak of their separation and she forgot Eliot Parker's way of kissing her. But he _was_ her first and she would never ever forget _him_.

Then, years later, when she was waitressing in some crappy bar in New York (it was in the times before her big breakthrough), she accidentally spilt a cocktail over a handsome guy and he joked he'd forgive her if she'd go out with him. So, she went on a date with him and one date turned into four and then she found herself as the girlfriend of Jackson Connor, a struggling business administration student who earned his money with paintings he made. For two years, he was her everything and she was his almost-everything because his everything was his little mentally and physically disabled brother Shawn. But Shelby was absolutely fine with that. She liked Shawn very much and sometimes went to the park with him to show him the squirrels in the trees and the sea-galls in the air and laugh along with him about things that she wouldn't have thought funny hadn't she been with him and his childish mind.

But she and Jackson grew apart and even Shawn couldn't hold them together anymore and so, Jackson moved out of Shelby's apartment and Shelby cried (and drank) three days over the man she loved and four days over that man's little brother because she just couldn't forget the way he'd looked at her in those last few seconds, chin quivering and arms flailing about in distress because he couldn't understand.

Twice, she had a two-months-fling with Jim from the ensemble of the musical that earned her a Tony. And then, one night, long after the theatre had closed and the people had disappeared from the stage door, she bumped into a young man with black hair and green eyes that had gotten lost and had "no idea where the hell I am". David Aguilar, a man that would come to know her like no one else ever did, who didn't know a single thing about Barbra Streisand and the joys of musical theatre, who had never heard the name Shelby Corcoran before and who didn't give a second thought on her fame or her money. Who managed to kiss her senseless in the backstage area so that she forgot the words to one of her songs and amused the audience that night to no end because they all knew a woman madly in love when they saw one. He proposed to her on a starless night in the middle of summer on their way back from the theatre. She shed a few tears that night because one of her co-stars, a friend of hers, had her last curtain call and she was going to miss her terribly. She was tucking herself into his side, staring up at the dark night sky when he suddenly stopped her and got down on one knee and she said yes before he could even pull out the ring. He wasn't even mad or without understanding when she explained to him later on that she wouldn't take his last name because to the theatre people she was Shelby Corcoran and she didn't want that to change and on top of that she was the last one to hand the name Corcoran down and she didn't want to end the story of her last name. He kissed her and told her she was adorable and far too good at disguising her selfishness as selflessness. She smacked his arm and kissed him back.

That man, she knows.

She knows him better than she's ever known anyone (except for her daughters, of course) and she loves him so much that she doesn't know what to do now that she _can't_ love him anymore. It's like her heart is torn in two because she loves him so much and yet hates him so much and hates loving him even more.

Shelby is in tears by the time her daughter is gliding into her last pose and the music fades off. At least she can blame her daughter's beautiful dancing for her tears now as she jumps to her feet and begins to clap. More and more people rise to their feet because _God, was she good_!

For about five seconds, no one notices her tears. But then Santana turns with a proud smile on her face that fades the seconds the lights are slowly turned on again and she spots the tears on her mother's face.

She wraps her arms around her mother's waist and pulls herself against her, resting her forehead against Shelby's collarbone. For a moment, Shelby tries to keep clapping, pretending that everything's alright, but then she finally folds her oldest daughter into her arms and presses a kiss on her parting and sobs quietly into her black hair.

Here comes the breakdown. Thinks Shelby bitterly to herself as she feels Santana pull her closer against her.

But the breakdown never comes. Instead, she gasps throatily and raises her hands to wipe her tears away.

"What was that?" whispers Cassie into her ear as they began to collect their stuff from the seats.

Shelby swallows hard. "I just- I remembered a few things and I- I just lost it."

She drapes her coat over her arm. "I think I almost had a breakdown."

Cassie's response is a squeeze of Shelby's hand and then wrapping an arm around her shoulder to pull her close as they make their way back into the foyer.

Parents are talking with proud smiles on their faces, children are jumping around in barely contained excitement. They all agree: every single child danced beautifully. But that last girl... she was extraordinary.

A small smile appears on Shelby’s face—that's her daughter they're talking about—but then, the door to the hallway is flung open and a fuming Rachel Corcoran storms out.

To the others, she might look excited, but Shelby knows her daughter and she knows a good show face when she sees one. And right now, Rachel's show face isn't overly good.

For a moment, Rachel’s searching eyes wander through the foyer, grazing them twice before she finally makes them out in the crowd and hurries towards them. Her lips are curled into a smile but the look in her eyes suggests anger and distress.

With a strong tug, Santana frees herself from her mother's grip and meets her a few metres away from them.

"He's here, isn't he?” Rachel sounds distressed—as if trying to decide whether to cry or scream. "I could see you from the stage and Mom- she looked so... so upset.”

Santana lowers her head a little. "Yes, he's here. But we didn't talk to him so far, so-"

"He's ruining this. He's ruining everything.”

Shelby feels how Cassie squeezes her hand a little tighter. At first, she thinks it's a sign of her pity, her sympathy, but then she looks up and spots _him_. And he’s not even that far away from them _and_ approaching.

He looks absolutely normal—at ease with himself—though Shelby thinks she sees guilt flashing across his face for just a split second.

It takes him three steps until he stands right in front of her and Shelby feels like she's going to faint at every second.

"Shelby, I-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there,” Cassie raises a hand, her voice as cold as ice. "I just want to inform you that nothing you’re going to say is going to make any of us hate you any less, believe me. But I still don’t want to have to kill you right now so please just be careful that you're not being too much of an asshole.”

Shelby squeezes her hand. Her heart is pounding hard against her ribcage and her lips feel as though they are glued together.

Behind him, her two daughters are standing, glaring at his back with their looks as sharp as daggers. She tries to channel their anger, their strength as she swallows down the strangling pain in her throat and raises her head to look him in the eyes.

God, those eyes. Green with brown sprinkles around the pupil that dance when he laughs and turn into ice when he's angry. Unlike Shelby, he keeps his emotions inside and turns them into a whirlwind of feelings in his eyes.

She fell in love with him because he stumbled into her life at the perfectly right moment. He grounded her when she was already up in the air and still constantly rising (rising towards supposedly snobbery and arrogance) and she loved him for that. But it was his eyes that made her fall in love with him every day all over again. And still do. She looks into his eyes and all her built up courage and determination is gone and leaves her only with anger and sadness.

"What is it?”

If he does notice the change in her voice, he doesn't show it.

"I-I'd like to talk to you.”

Shelby shakes her head. "Not right now, not like this—not in passing."

_Not in the foyer of a dance studio with dozens of people around._

"I just-I," David wrings his hands. "I want to get this done and over with."

"Done and over with?!"

A woman nearby turns her head, eyebrows raised and Shelby bites down on the inside of her cheek in a weak attempt to compose herself. "So, talking to me is something you have to 'get done and over with' now?!"

"No, that's not what I meant, I-"

But he stops at Shelby's furious glare. She's actually a little impressed that she can still manage to look at him like this when she's feeling like dying inside.

"People are staring, Shelby," Cassie whispers into her ear. "There's an empty cloakroom over there if you—you know—want some privacy."

Shelby squeezes her hand. _Thank you_.

Her eyes find her daughters' a few metres away and, ignoring the slight tremor in her voice, she calls out to them. "Rachel, Santana, I want you to get Rachel's stuff and then wait in the car, alright?"

Santana's face falls. "What?! No, Mom, that's-"

"I'll go with you," interrupts Nana and her voice brooks no dissent. She places a hand on Shelby's shoulder as she passes and for a second, Shelby just wants to fall into her arms and cry.

She watches them leave through the side door and her heart skips a beat when she sees how Santana struggles against her grandmother's grip and Rachel stomps her foot—something she did very often when she was a child and not getting her way or getting utterly frustrated and angry at something. Or, in this case, someone.

As Shelby turns around to head towards the cloakroom, she realises that she's never acted in front of her husband. Not like this. Of course, he's seen her acting—both onstage and on camera—but she's never acted for him.

But as she squares her shoulders and raises her chin and her striding steps are accompanied by a sharp, angry and altogether _strong_ sound of her heels against the stone floor, she has to admit that the act she's playing right now might just be the toughest one she's ever played.

The door of the cloakroom closes behind them and leaves them in absolute silence. Silence that lasts for about two seconds before Shelby finds the strength to raise her voice again. "I agree with Cassie; nothing you'll say could make any of us be less upset about this. So… don't kid yourself."

As long as she can keep up the angry façade, she's going to be alright. As long as she doesn't look into those eyes for too long, she can pretend to be nothing but angry—she can pretend to hold the upper hand. Because Shelby Corcoran always holds the upper hand in conversations. And if she doesn't, she is so good at pretending to hold it anyway that her counterparts often start to hand it to her just a few seconds into the conversation.

David looks at his hands for a second. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, Shelbs."

She tries not to wince at the nickname. "Sorry for what? Cheating on me? For _three years_? I doubt it, David, otherwise you would've come crawling back, begging for forgiveness already."

"No, I mean—I'm sorry that- I never wanted you to find out like that."

"Then how did you want me to find out? How were you planning on telling me?" her nails are digging into the flesh of her palms and she's surprised the movement isn't drawing any blood.

David squirms a little under her enraged glare. "I-I don't know. I never really thought about that."

"Of course not, because you're a stupid asshole."

"Cassie!"

Shelby nudges the blonde into the ribs but it's only a half-hearted motion. Her eyes remain firmly on her husband—God, her husband! –who seems genuinely sorry at this moment. She didn't expect him to.

"I know I should've done a lot of things differently-"

"Oh really?" Shelby manages an unamused snort. "You mean cheating on your wife for three years? Yeah I do think that's something you should've done very differently."

The bitterness in her voice wavers just a little to reveal hurt and she most sincerely hopes that he doesn't notice.

"That's what I really don't get, David, and believe me, I've been thinking about it a lot. _How_? How did you manage to love some other woman and still return to our house every afternoon and convince me that nothing's changed—that you still love me and that you were coming home after a long day of exhausting work and not a long day of screwing around? That's what I don't get. Because sincerity was the one thing that we promised each other—and ourselves—to always maintain. Sincerity and trust. And you seem to have forgotten both."

He opens his mouth as if trying to say something, but she raises a hand. "You didn't once arise suspicion in me, David, and I'm the most suspicious person there is—I see betrayal and conspiracy everywhere I look—I _expect_ it. But I never expected it with you. And you took advantage of that. Every day. Every—day, right, David?"

The silence that lingers on as her voice trails off makes her knees buckle underneath her, but she recovers quickly. Her face is pinched, her lips are pressed into a thin line. "So, how did you do it? How did you manage to pretend to love me for three years when you were in love with someone else? Why did you even expend all that effort—the holidays in Sicily, the weekend trips to New York?"

David lowers his head, even if just a little. "I never meant to hurt you, Shelbs. Neither of you—you are my family."

"Exactly!" Shelby yanks her fingers through her long hair. "We are—we _were_ your family! How could you choose someone else over your own family?!"

"Shelby… I didn't want this to happen. I-I didn't mean to stop loving you—what kind of person would want that? But it-it just happened and-"

"And you thought you would just keep your family—the wife you don't love—and have someone else to love you?" with an angry snort, Shelby frees herself from Cassie's grip and crosses her arms in front of her chest. "In what kind of twisted, _sick_ world does that story have a happy ending?"

"I would've told you eventually."

"Oh, how good of you!" spits Shelby. "And when would you have worked up the courage to do that, may I ask? After Santana and Rachel are off to college? Would you've told me then and left me all alone? Or maybe wait a little longer? Until our silver wedding? Tell me as an anniversary gift?"

She clenches her fists. "Not one of those options would've been fair on me—none of this is fair on me! The only thing you could've done—the only right thing—is telling me right after you realised what was going on. And, don't get me wrong, I would've been furious with you—I would've been angry and without understanding and totally heartbroken. But at least you would've been honest with me. At least you wouldn't have let me look like a complete fool."

"I didn't mean to-"

"Yes, but you did!" Shelby fires back. "You made me look like a fool, like some stupid, naïve bimbo for not noticing that you were _pretending_ for three years."

Somehow, her legs start to move, carrying her back and forth in the room, from one end to the other, sending her pacing like a lunatic. "And I of all people should've noticed that something was off, right? I who lived with you for almost twenty years, whom you talked to about everything and anything and who got to see a side of you that so few people have seen— _I_ should've noticed the change! But I didn't! And how do you think does that make me feel?"

She yanks her fingers through her hair and thinks for a second, she's going to lose her balance and fall to the ground as her heels scrape across the floor.

"I'm sorry, Shelby, I really am."

And he certainly sounds sorry. He sounds absolutely sorry but she's not sure if he's sorry for her or for himself—for the complications he's brought on himself.

"Then why didn't you just say something?" she shudders to a halt. "Why didn't you just sit me down one evening and told me that you were sorry, but you felt we were growing apart or whatever!?"

"I don't know."

Shelby snorts angrily, hurt. "I thought so."

"You were always gone!"

Her eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"You were always gone, Shelby," he repeats—and rather calmly so. "At work at Carmel or onset somewhere in who-knows-where with who-knows-who and I sometimes didn't see you for two months straight because you were off in fancy Europe to shoot some fancy movie or to attend some fancy gala and-"

"What?" Shelby's words are no more than a breathy whisper. " _What_ , David? Were you jealous of me?"

He shakes his head. "No, I wasn't. I never was. But- but you were never there."

"Yes, I was! I was there, David! And those two months… that was the only time that I left for so long and I didn't accept any role after that for years because I was so miserable when I was away from you and the girls. And when I accepted that other movie two yeas ago, you said it was okay! I told you I didn't have to because—God knows we had enough money—but you said if it would make me happy-"

"Exactly, Shelby!" David shakes his head. "It was always just about what made you happy, about what you wanted and what you dreamt of and what you thought was best for us. You never asked me if I wanted to live like that. You asked if I'd be okay if you would accept this role or that role—but you never asked what I'd like our life to look like."

His words sting like nothing else. The pain that she feels is consuming and her hands are shaking so hard that she has to tuck them under her arms, so it won't show. Is it true? Was she being so selfish?

"You never said anything," she manages to say and the defeat in her voice is undeniable. Even for him.

"And you never asked."

For a moment, it is absolutely quiet in the room. But Shelby hears the blood rushing through her head and her heart pounding against her ribcage.

"So, we both made some mistakes-"

"Stop."

"Excuse me?"

"Stop," Shelby says. "I know what you're trying to do, David, but it's not going to work. I'm not the one at fault here. I didn't neglect you; I didn't abandon you; I didn't even leave without calling at least once a day. You chose to go to another woman, David, that was your decision. And you don't regret it. Because you don't love me anymore."

The pain that's surging through her body makes it hard for her to speak. It's her own words that cause that pain but still, she can't bring herself to stop.

"But that's not my fault. You screwed up, that wasn't me."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I screwed up? Then tell me how-"

"Yes, you screwed up!" Shelby snaps. "You cheated on me with another woman, David! You cheated on me for three years because you were afraid of what would've happened if you told me earlier! You were too comfortable in our house with our children and your stupid wife that cooked for you every other day, that did your laundry and never even thought of the possibility that her husband might be cheating on her! You took advantage of me and my trust and my naivety and my love while you screwed around with some woman at work. It was an easy life for you—you could love that woman but not deal with any of the consequences. And now you're making me pay for it!"

"Well what did you expect, Shelby?!" Bursts David. "Do you know how hard it is to stay in love with somebody that you hardly see more often than once a day? Sometimes twice? Do you know how hard it is to ignore all that selfishness when you went off to God-knows-where for weeks? To ignore all that pain that you went through because you missed New York and Broadway so much sometimes but never seemed to miss me when you were gone? The theatre was more important to you than I and-"

"David, no!" She yanks her shaking fingers through her hair. "Your decision! Yours! Not mine! So, don't you dare to blame me for this!"

She glares at him for two more seconds. Then, she deflates. "I'm done with this."

Cassie reaches out to take her hand and she's so grateful for that because she feels like her own legs are going to give out underneath her.

The blonde stops at the door once more, turning around and squeezing Shelby's hand as she spits, "I hope you're gonna feel guilty for the rest of your sorry life. I hope you're still gonna feel awful when you rot in hell forever."

It's her steady hand on Shelby's back that leads her out of the room and across the foyer. It's her hand on her wrist that makes sure that she even walks in the right direction.

The car door opens, and she's gently pushed forwards to sit down. She doesn't even realise that it's the passenger seat—that her mother is sitting in the back between her two daughters.

Inside, she feels numb. She listens to the sound of her own thoughts banging against her temples as though they wanted to break out, break free. She listens to the sound of her heart, stumbling and stuttering and stammering in her chest.

The pain in her heart, the gaping hole in the centre of her chest consumes her and, little by little, she feels the words that were exchanged minutes ago sink in, piercing into her flesh like a thousand knives.

"You know he's not right. It's not your fault," Cassie looks at her from wide, brown eyes as if she was trying to read her.

"Of course not," says Shelby.

Then, her walls break down around her and, bending over with her elbows resting on her knees and her face buried in her hands, she cries.


	10. Sometimes It's Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new character in this one...  
> and also this is kinda angsty but like nothing severe or anything. 
> 
> chapter title is the same-titled song by Jamie Lawson

** Chapter 10  
** **Sometimes It's Hard**

**Rachel.**

For two days, my mother is gone.

For two days, it's only Santana and I and the occasional sound of our phone ringing.

Cassie's calling at least once a day, always asking the same questions that we don't have the answers to and eventually saying goodbye feeling just as helpless as we. Gramps calls twice, demanding to talk to his daughter and we have to tell him that—no, that's impossible. Why? He asks. She's not here. We answer.

Aunt Amy calls to see how we're doing. I can tell her by the urge in her voice, the worry, that she's just about to jump into her car and make her way from Hershey to Lima to see for herself that we're 'just fine' as we insist. When she calls Sunday evening again, the worry so undeniably in her voice, I can't keep the tears at bay anymore and I have to hand the phone to Santana.

Nana calls a few times to make sure that she doesn’t have to call the Aguilars—our paternal grandparents—to take matters in their hands, but we manage to convince her that it's not necessary.

For two days, it's only Santana and I and the lingering pain that weighs down our every step. The silence that envelopes the house is downright depressing and still none of us feels like talking all that much. It's like we share the same emotions right now—the same lack of motivation, the same longing for a new day and a new start.

For two days, it's only Santana and I and the rain pouring down on the roof of the house. It's not making this any easier for us—seems that the universe is working against us. Together we sit in the kitchen for hours, cups of hot chocolate in front of us and our noses stuck in a book, pretending that we can actually concentrate on the words written down. I try to cook something that Sunday afternoon but almost set off the fire alarm when I burn the baguette in the oven, so we end up ordering takeout from our favourite Chinese restaurant.

At least, I can pretend for a while that everything's normal as I set my alarm for tomorrow morning and pick out my clothes to put into the bathroom across the hallway. I think for a moment about recording a video to upload on MySpace, but I decide against it. I probably couldn't even sing anything but some kind of depressing Adele song and that wouldn't help my feelings in any way.

So, I prepare everything for the upcoming day, and I prepare for the day after that and the day after that day as well. Just because preparing seems like a usual-Sunday kinda thing to do and I want to keep up the illusion that it's just another Sunday.

When I go to bed, I try to day-dream a little about Broadway and what lays ahead of me and how I will show all those stupid jocks and bullies from school that I am better than they are—that I can actually do something with my life and make people admire me. That they were wrong all along.

_Just another Sunday._

But I still can't fall asleep. Because for the first time in one week, I don't hear my mother crying softly behind the wall of my closet. You'd think that would be a good thing—that she's not crying anymore—but the only reason that I can't hear her is that she's not there. The master bedroom is deserted, the sheets still neatly folded. So, she's probably still crying at night—the only thing that's changed is that I can't hear her.

I toss and turn in my bed for some time, I try to count the letters on all the books on my shelves, but I always get confused around 68 or 72 and I give up on that.

Needless to say, that I am the most tired I've ever been in my entire life when I'm supposed to get up for school. I watch the display flare up every time the numbers change, pushing towards the 6:30 mark, darkening down halfway through the next minute only to flare up again when it changes—6:28; my eyes flutter close.

Wow. Wow, Rachel, wow. Two minutes before my alarm goes off, I fall asleep. Couldn't that have happened eight hours ago when I was actually trying to fall asleep?

I pry one eye open, just in time to see the display flaring up for good, showing 6:30 for a split second before changing to the blueish background with the white numbers on it and a small text saying "good morning, honey. Time to get up. I love you". Every morning I wake up, it says something else. It's this weird tradition my mother has; changing the notes that show up with our alarms every night before school so that there's a new thing to read every morning. Usually, it makes me smile. But today, it's the same note as Friday morning and my heart actually feels like it's sinking down into my lungs. Which sounds weird but it's just the best way to describe it. I feel like my heart has left its original place and sank down into my lungs, making it hard to breathe, and in its place is this empty space—though not entirely empty since it's somehow full of pain.

I can't even hear the tunes my phone is playing. But it should be _Take Me or Leave Me_ from Rent because it has this awesome beat that makes me grin. It's the right amount of rock, the right amount of pop, mixed with a whole lot of energy and a whole lot of anger and self-confidence. And I feel that most of the time, that's the exact thing that I need in the morning. But from time to time, I change the melody of my alarm. Sometimes, I wake up to my mom's voice, literally coaxing me out of sleep; sometimes it's one of Barbra's cheesy ballads. But in the end, I always come back to _Take Me or Leave Me_ because it just feels right.

But today, it doesn't. So, I turn off my alarm and curl into myself and squeeze my eyes shut. I don't even pretend to tell myself _just five more minutes_. Because I want five more hours of sleep. No, leave the _more_ —I haven't slept all night; I just want five hours of sleep. But my mind won't shut up.

I think this is one of those times that the body somehow just ignores the signals the brain sends—like when you have a blockage and your body just acts and contracts all the muscles around that blockage to protect it but then it only hurts so damn much because the muscles are contracting so hard and your brain goes all crazy about that but your body ignores your brain because it's some kind of instinct and you can't control that. It's like the body takes the initiative to make sure you don't black out or maybe even die—they call it survival instinct or something like that. So, although my brain tries to keep me from falling asleep because it's a weekday and I have to go to school and all that, my eyes close on their own accord and I feel myself drifting away into sleep.

And if I had to describe the place I go to, then I'd probably describe it like this:

It's darkness. It's nothingness and it's darkness and then it's nothingness again. But mostly darkness. And if darkness wasn't a place before, it is now.

And Darkness is the place you go to when your body needs a timeout from your brain.

I can still think when I go there. No coherent sentences or things that actually make sense, but I know that I'm here and I know that I'm asleep. But reality somehow fades into the background and stuff like Monday and school and alarm clocks don't exist anymore. Deep inside of me, I know that I should wake up again to get ready. But I don't open the door to that reality inside my mind and so, I stay in Darkness. Or _at_ Darkness?

I don't know and actually, I don't really care, either. I just stay here, no questions asked.

I'm surprised that I even notice when a hand is placed on my shoulder. It feels like watching another person be touched on the shoulder but then again, it doesn't because I can't really see anything. It feels muffled and far away. But as the hand squeezes the shoulder once more, I realise that it's _my_ shoulder. I know I left Darkness before I even open my eyes. Through my closed lids, I see a few shadows and bright spots that weren't there when I was in Darkness.

 _In_ Darkness because it's a state of mind and you don't say 'I'm at sadness'. But then again, you don't say 'I'm in sadness' either because sadness isn't a place. It's a state of mind. And now, I'm confused. It's too early for this.

When I open my eyes, I somehow expect it to be my mom. I expect her to look at me from slightly angry, tired eyes (because she's always tired these days) and say something like "Rachel, honey, I heard your alarm. Get up already, you're going to miss the bus."

But I look into my sister's face instead.

"Morning," she says quietly and crawls into my bed. "Rachel, we're staying home today."

I stop mid-yawn and my jaw slacks open. "What? Why?"

"Because," she heaves a sigh. "Mom called in sick."

"What?!"

All thoughts of Darkness are gone. "She what?!"

"She called in sick."

"But she _never_ calls in sick. Like… _never_."

Which is not entirely true because she does call in sick when one of us is sick or when she just needs a freaking day off because she's always working so hard. But those things rarely happen.

Santana tucks a foot underneath her. "I know. So, I called Nana and she called in sick for us. I just don't want to leave her alone, you know?"

With a sigh, I sink back into my pillows. "This is so messed up. It's like role's reversed or something."

"I know," slowly, Santana stands up. "Wanna come downstairs for breakfast?"

"She made breakfast?"

My sister shakes her head. "I did."

"Wow. Thanks."

"No problem," she helps me up and gives me a weak smile. "Go take a shower, you smell."

I stick my tongue out at her and she grins. It feels normal.

And being in the shower feels normal too. I think the shower is my awake Darkness.

But when I make my way downstairs, I remember that things are not normal right now.

Santana is standing in the doorway between the hallway and the kitchen, her hips resting against the wall.

"Is she having breakfast with us?" I ask.

Santana shakes her head. She takes my arm and gently pushes me towards the living room door. "Go say good morning, I think she needs that."

So, I make my way into the living room.

Of course, my mother isn't gone for two days. Of course, it's not only Santana and I. But it also doesn't feel like she's really here with us.

My mom is sitting on the sofa, one foot planted on the cushions, her chin resting on her knee. In front of her on the couch table is a glass of wine. Red wine. It's untouched. At least I think it is—I hope it is. The wine bottle stands beside the glass and it looks full—open but still full—and Mom doesn't seem drunk.

She just stares at the glass like she's debating whether to drink or not. Maybe it's some kind of therapy for her; resisting the urge to drink. But then I remember that she once told me she doesn't really have the urge to drink.

"Alcohol can make things seems funnier, yes. But it's like lying to yourself, isn't it? You drink something to get that personality change and you get funnier or more self-confident—some people get really sad—but it's only temporary. Once the alcohol leaves your system, you're you again and all that drunk wit and confidence is gone. And that seems dangerous to me. What if you don't like your normal wit or your slightly bruised self-confidence? What if you start to like your drunk you better than your normal you? Or what if you start to like how it makes you feel too much, and you don't want it to stop? And then alcohol also doesn't solve any of your problems, it just locks them away or makes them seem less difficult. But I don't think it's good to lock your problems away—I like to think about these things and think about them hard and long and I need my head to be fully functional. Many people have an issue with that—locking problems and feelings away—and they make the mistake of thinking that alcohol would make it better. But it just makes you want to lock them away forever because you get a taste of what it's like not to have to think about them."

So, no, I don't think that Mom's been drinking. But it still makes me feel so unsure of everything as I hesitantly step closer.

"Hi, Mom."

She turns around with a smile on her face that could easily be mistaken for a grimace.

"Hi, honey."

Her voice is high-pitched and for a second, I think she's faking happiness but she's just so exhausted.

She doesn't stand up to hug me but reaches out to take my hand and pull me closer to her so she can hug me from the couch.

"How did you sleep?"

"Fine."

Ha-ha. I'm such a bad liar. But she doesn't say anything. She just kisses my forehead and holds me a little tighter than she usually does and then she sends me into the kitchen to have breakfast because "you're getting far too thin, honey".

And although I'm pretty sure that she's thinner than me, I let her stay on the sofa and return to the kitchen without her.

"You know what really scares me?" Santana says as I sit down at the breakfast table and the question has my heart jumping into my throat.

My sister doesn't get scared—Santana isn't afraid of anything or anyone. She can't be. Because when she's scared then I have already died of fear.

My eyes widen a little and she takes it as a sign to continue to speak when I'm actually trying to tell her to stop.

"That she might stay like this forever."

Again, she mistakes my silence for telling her to continue. My stomach is in knots, my throat is so tight that I feel like I shouldn't be able to breathe properly anymore.

"That we- that we just lost our mom," tears are shining in her eyes. "That he broke her so much with whatever he said to her that she's never going to be herself again. I'm so afraid that she's never going to hum _I'm The Greatest Star_ again or laugh about those stupid memes that Cassie sends her or change those cheesy notes on our-"

"Stop."

"-alarms or-"

"Shut up!"

I can't even control how much my body is shaking as I manage to struggle to my feet and stumble away from the table. I don't know what I'm doing until I bend over the sink and my jaw snaps open. My whole stomach clenches together and the sound that comes out of my mouth is something between a sob and a retch. Still, that sound is the only thing that leaves my body, but it hurts anyway. It hurts so much that it brings tears to my eyes.

"Oh my God, Rachel, I'm so sorry."

I feel Santana's hand on my back and I really want to shake it off, but another retch makes me bend over.

"I hate you," I choke out with gritted teeth. "Why did you even tell me this? I didn't think about that, I-"

"I'm so sorry, Rachel."

Santana sniffs behind me and when I turn around, she's crying. Shit. She tries to wipe the tears away but there're to many of them and she seems so lost right now.

"I-I didn't mean to-to upset you but I-I'm just so-"

I place a hand on my stomach just to check if I might feel sick again and with the other hand, I pull Santana into a hug. "I'm sorry too, San. I don't hate you, you're my sister—I love you so much."

"I know. _I know_. I'm just _so_ scared."

"Oh God, Santana, she can't stay like this—she _can't_."

She holds me tighter than I hold her, and I tell myself that it's just because I'm still clutching my stomach. But then I realise that I'm the only one there. I'm the only one that she can pour her heart out to and I'm the only one that she can hug like this and doesn't have to lie to me afterwards and say she just missed me so much. I'm the only one she can talk to right now.

Usually, she has a bunch of friends that she can call in the middle of the night just so they can talk about some random stuff. She has Quinn and Brittany and Noah—but she can't tell them about all this because of the stupid media—and she has Mom. Usually, she has Mom to turn to when she's struggling but right now, Mom is struggling so hard that I don't know how she's ever going to stop struggling—and _if_ she's ever going to stop.

I at least have Santana to talk to, but Santana has no one. No one but me.

"You should tell Quinn."

She leans back, a little confused. "What?"

"You should tell Quinn about this. She would understand—and she wouldn't tell. She knows what it's like; you could talk to her."

Santana shakes her head. "But Mom told us not to-"

"Yes, but it's _Quinn_ , Sanny. And of course, you can talk to me—you know that, right?" I squeeze her hands. "But I know that you won't because you don't want to burden me or whatever. So, I think you should tell Quinn."

She frees one hand from my grip to wipe her tears away. "You're the best baby sister I could've asked for, you know that?"

I smile in response. "And you're the best big sister _I_ could've asked for."

Slowly, I sit down at the breakfast table again. Santana made French toast and as soon as I sink my teeth into the bread, I decide that, from now on, Santana's French toast comes right after Mom's pancakes on my list of favourite foods.

When two hours later the doorbell rings, neither of us moves at first. We just sit there in the kitchen, noses stuck in a book. But then, after a few seconds, the bell rings again. And again, and again, and again.

"Sweet baby Jesus!" Santana tries to sneak past me to supposedly strangle whoever is at the door.

"No," I scramble to my feet. "I'll get it."

It comes to a small little wrangling in our hallway and for a second, I think Santana is actually just going to stuff me into our closet but then she suddenly deflates and looks at me with a triumphant smile. "Okay, you go girl."

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me, little sis," she spins, grinning. "Have fun."

With that, she's gone, and I'm so stunned that I gape at the opposite wall for some seconds without any movement. It's only a sharp, frantic knocking that makes me turn and reach for the door handle.

"Finally," says the voice on the other side of the door, even before I can open the door. He—it's obviously a male voice—sounds genuinely annoyed and for a second, I'm totally inclined to just close the door again.

"Excuse me?"

And so, I find myself face-to-face with a blonde boy. A very _handsome_ , tall, blonde boy with blue eyes and broad shoulders and—and the most annoyed look on his face I've seen in a long time. And that should say something—since I live together with Santana Corcoran.

He looks a little puzzled for a moment but then he clears his throat and says, "Rachel Corcoran, right?"

"Um…" I fidget nervously and can't help but cast a look over my shoulder. Santana is nowhere to be seen. And she calls herself 'sister of the year'—don't make me laugh. "Yes?"

"Jesse St James," he reaches out to shake my hand. "We've met before, right? I'm Vocal Adrenaline's lead-" His chest swells with pride, there. "You were grounded, and Coach made you come to work with her, remember?"

The blush that creeps onto my cheeks puts the red gerbera in the flower tubs across the street to shame.

"Uh… yes?"

He grins and I'm suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. And they say _I'm_ crazy-confident. Even I'm overwhelmed right now.

"Yeah, anyway," he runs a hand through his blonde curls. "So, like I said, I'm the lead of Vocal Adrenaline and I kind of have a meeting with Coach Corcoran. An important one."

I recoil slightly. "Uh… I don't think my mother has time for you right now, Jesse."

"I'm pretty sure she has. It's about Sectionals."

"And I'm pretty sure she hasn't," I cross my arms. "She's… busy."

Jesse narrows his eyes at me a little. "Don't you mean _sick_?"

Busted.

"Yeah, that too."

He snorts. "For sure."

"Hey, listen," he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "It's important and she promised to- well, I kind of can't tell you, since-"

"I thought New Directions were no competition for such a 'high-class show choir as Vocal Adrenaline'?" I mock him and he actually squirms a little under my glare.

"You're still the enemy."

"Not what my mother thinks, apparently."

He gapes at me open-mouthed. "Wait, she leaked the setlist to you?"

I grin. "No, but thanks for letting me know what she's been so busy writing on her computer."

That's a lie. She hasn't been busy writing anything lately. At least not in the last two days.

"Okay," he sounds a little helpless for a moment, stroking through his hair. "Um… could you—print it out for me? She wanted to give me setlist so I can start instructing the dancers."

"She lets you instruct the dancers?"

"Kind of."

I'm surprised. Who would've thought my mother would give away such power? She usually likes to stay in control.

I recover quickly and even though my arms finally sink to my sides, I still have to turn him down.

"Sorry, Jesse," I say. "But I can't help you with this."

Now, he looks seriously confused. "What? She said she'd finish it over the weekend and give it to me on Monday-"

"Well, plans change," I cut him off.

And—I'd never thought Jesse St James would turn out to be actually smart and empathetic—but he actually gets that something's wrong.

"Is everything alright?" he asks in a surprisingly soft voice.

And I deflate for a second. It's enough of an answer for him.

"Sorry," he says quietly, stepping back. "I guess I shouldn't have come. Coach obviously has her reasons to stay at home and I- I shouldn't have intruded like this."

I'm stunned into silence.

Wow. I haven't seen Jesse St James in a while, but I _have_ met him before. And I would never have thought a person could change that much. Because the Jesse St James I know—or _knew_ , apparently—would never have apologised for something like this. He probably would never have apologised for anything.

“It's just- Coach rarely is sick. A-and she's never sick on Mondays and especially not when she has a meeting, so I- it's not my place, I know, but... is she okay?”

My heart is pounding like mad as I step outside, closing the door behind me.

This is not a decision _I_ make; I will tell myself later on, I'm pretty sure. I'm pretty much just acting on impulse so none of this will be my fault in the end.

At least in theory.

“Honestly?”

He looks up in surprise as though he didn't actually believe I was going to answer.

“No, she's not.”

It hurts to say that. It hurts _so much_.

“Listen.”

My hand is on his arm and I have literally no idea how it got there. “I don't know _what_ I'm going to tell you now, but you have to promise me that, no matter what, you'll not tell anyone. _Anyone_ , okay?”

He nods, eyes widened.

So, with a deep sigh, I sink down onto the step in front of the door, drawing my knees close to my chest. The front porch is still wet from the previous rainfall and I'm already freezing cold. I'm not wearing a jacket—because I didn't intend on having a conversation with Jesse St James when I was opening the front door—and my hoodie (my mother's hoodie, actually) isn't the best replacement.

But I guess if my mother's weird therapy is staring at a full glass of wine for two days straight, then mine is pouring my heart out to my mother’s favourite student, namely Jesse St James.

“So, no, she's not okay,” I say quietly. “Not at all, actually. A-and I'm not even sure she's ever going to be okay again. It seems pretty hopeless right now.”

Slowly, almost hesitantly so, Jesse sits down beside me. “D-did someone die?”

“No,” I shake my head. “But he might as well have.”

For a second, it's absolutely quiet. Then: “Oh. _Oh._ ”

“Promise you won't tell anyone?” I turn to him. “I mean, my mom isn't Emma Watson or anything but... the press likes whatever scandal they can find, so-"

“I promise.”

I nod slowly. “Good. She said we shouldn't tell anyone just yet, so- don't even talk to her about it. She'd probably skin me alive.”

Jesse grins at me. “And me as well. As a prevention.”

I manage a small smile.

I fold my hands between my legs to warm them and he tilts his head to one side. “Do you think she, um, she'll be back for Sectionals?”

The sigh that escapes my lips wavers a little. “As much as I'd love to tell you that I'm one hundred percent sure that she'll be there... I really don't know, Jesse. I feel like I don't know anything anymore.”

He averts his eyes. “I’m sorry it's like that for you.”

And he really, genuinely seems to be sorry. For a moment, our eyes lock and there's such a mutual understanding in the blue pools of his eyes that it scares me a little.

I open my mouth to ask although I don't quite know _what_ I'm going to ask but then, Jesse backs away.

“I should go.”

He turns around and heads towards the street, but he stops once more to throw a look over his shoulder. “It's not going to stay like this, I'm sure. Coach—I mean Mrs Corcoran—is a tough one. If she's not going to get through this, then I don't know who is.”

I lower my head. “And that's exactly what scares me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so? what do you think about Jesse? loved it? hated it? thoughts?


	11. Begin Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again a new (two new? idk) character in this. 
> 
> chapter title is the same-titled song by Taylor Swift

** Chapter 11  
** **Begin Again**

**Santana.**

"No, go away."

Blindly, I reach out to slap the hand away that's gently shaking my shoulder.

"Santana, now."

"No, it's too early."

"Santana, I won't repeat myself again; you've got to wake up."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Just five more minutes."

"Five more minutes indeed."

There's another shaking on my shoulder and finally, my eyes snap open.

"Mom?!"

There she is, dressed in black suit pants and a purple top, hair cascading down her back in soft waves. The dark circles underneath her eyes shine faintly through the thin layer of makeup but that's about it with the evidence of the last two days. No swollen, bloodshot eyes, no tearstained cheeks. She looks… rested, at worst—refreshed, at best. But it's a start, a very good start, actually.

"Santana, it's already 7:00 a.m. You've got to hurry up."

I sit up straight in my bed. "Wait, so you're going to work today?"

She knits her brows just the slightest bit. "I wouldn't want to miss another day."

She steps back, her hand finding her hips as she watches me haul myself upright. My Cheerio uniform lays neatly folded on a stool nearby, along with a Cheerio sweater and the red knee highs. I know for sure that I'm not the one that put them there. I turn to look at my mother.

"So… everything okay again?"

She does a remarkably good job at looking me straight in the eyes even though her I'm-perfectly-fine mask wavers a little.

"It's getting there," she says slowly. "I'm sorry I wasn't… there for you in the last two days."

I wave a hand dismissively. "It's alright."

“No, it's not. I'm your mother, Santana, I should never— _never_ —leave you to fend for yourselves.”

Her response is thin-lipped and sharp as though she’s scolding herself. Guilt is shining in her eyes and making her words heavy.

“But this was different, you-"

Mom raises a hand to stop me. “The situation doesn’t matter. As a mother, you put your children first, _always_. It's my job—it's a promise you make when you become a mother."

She looks so defeated in that moment that I just want to stand up and wrap her up in a hug. But something in her eyes stops me. I can see how it eats away at her—the guilt and the frustration—and her features harden, and her lips become a thin line.

She steps backwards until her hips collide with the doorframe, but she doesn't seem to notice neither the collision nor the pain it surely caused. Her eyes grow impassive, her mouth is pinched. "Hurry up, Santana, we have to leave in half an hour."

"I don't have to shower—no need to hurry."

She's already halfway out the door. "Do you want some coffee?"

" _Please_ , coffee is my lifesaver in the morning."

She smiles at that. And my heart jumps.

The world seems only half as dark and the universe half as cruel when she smiles like that. I don't know how she manages to do that, but I know that I never want this effect to wear off. I try to hold her gaze for a moment and she steps closer to kiss my forehead.

"I'm so proud of you, Santana," she whispers into my hair.

I snuggle deeper into her arms, my nose finding the crotch of her neck. She smells like something sweet and expensive; the perfume Cassie once gave her. She smells like chocolate and mint and _home_.

But then, she steps back, and the scent disappears with the words she says. "Go get ready now, sweetheart."

She turns me around and gently pushes me towards the bathroom, placing a slight pat on my butt. My half-hearted glare meets an innocent grin and I keep my mouth shut and say nothing. I can hear her steps hurrying down the hallway as I enter the bathroom and close the door behind me.

My reflection stares at me from tired, brown eyes and I press my lips to a thin line.

"What is it?" I hiss at the mirror. "Why are you looking at me like this?"

Then, I turn away and avoid my reflection as good as I can, concentrating only on the clothes that I put off and on. It gets considerably harder when I brush my teeth and comb my hair, but I still manage. I try not to pay too much attention to the dark circles under my eyes and my slumped shoulders. The last few days were hard, yes, but it's going to get better. Especially now that my mother is her normal self again.

"15 minutes left," Rachel informs me from her place at the kitchen table, munching on an avocado toast.

She flashes my mother a quick look and then turns to me. _What happened?_ Her eyes seem to say. I simply shrug. I don't know what exactly brought our mom back—all I know is that I've never been this relieved about seeing Shelby Corcoran in the kitchen.

Mom is just turning around, placing a bowl of cut fruit and yoghurt in front of me. She pauses for a moment and her hands raise to cup my cheeks.

"Goodness, Santana, what were you looking at when you applied your makeup?"

She runs her thumbs across my cheeks and softly rubs the makeup into my skin. Her eyes find mine and she tilts her head to one side for a second before pressing a kiss to my temple.

"So, girls, I was thinking," she sits down on the seat next to me, holding a cup of coffee in both her hands. "Since Mrs Olsen is taking maternity leave for the next eight weeks, I'll have to play the watchdog for the seventh-graders in the first periods. Which means I could give you a ride to school on Monday and Friday" -I sigh in relief; 15 minutes more sleep when she drives us- "But I want you to take the bus on Wednesdays instead."

My face falls. "Wait, you could give us a ride on Wednesdays as well."

"Yes, but you're already spoiled rotten when it comes to your way to school."

Rachel arches her brows. "Spoiled rotten? Mom, we take the bus almost every day. Take the other Glee kids for example; they get a ride every day—they never have to take the bus."

"Yeah and look what arrogant brats they are," I manage to escape my mother's (probably well-placed and _most probably_ terribly stinging) swat.

She glares at me. "Santana, watch your language. And this is not up for discussion, Rachel, you'll take the bus from Tuesday to Thursday."

"So unfair," mutters Rachel and Mom raises an eyebrow.

"I take it that you want to take the bus on Monday as well?"

Her eyes widen and her voice cracks as she speaks. "No, Mom. Geez, I'm totally fine with Tuesdays to Thursdays."

Mom nods, nose dipping into her coffee. "I thought so."

She reaches out to wipe some crumbs off Rachel's cheek and tries a small smile. “Today, I'll give you a ride, though.”

My shoulder slump in relief. I was already picturing myself racing down the street towards the bus stop—and if there's one thing I hate, it's having to run after a bus at 7:30 in the morning. Mom stands up and turns to hand me my cup of coffee. "Eat up, girls, I'll go upstairs and get the papers I have to grade."

She pushes away from the table and runs a hand through Rachel's hair. "Honey, you have such dark circles under your eyes—I'll get your concealer, alright?"

Rachel nods quietly. She hides behind a curtain of dark hair as she watches our mother disappear from the kitchen. Then she turns to me, a frown adorning her forehead.

"What do you think made her, you know, herself again?"

"I don't know," I shrug. "Perhaps Cassie was getting on her nerves with all those angry messages she sent."

At that moment, my phone suddenly blares out a row of peeps and rings and I scrunch up my nose. "Speaking of angry messages."

My eyes narrow a little as the display of my phone flares up in a bright blue.

**Mail Inbox (5)**

**December 01, 2020 at 7:21 a.m.**

**_Dame Sue Sylvester:_ ** _I'm sick of your sloppiness. We're squeezing in a two hour practice this afternoon, so I don't have to puke every time I see you walking down the hallway with your flabby, untrained legs. Every single one of you that's not on the field at 2:40 is off the team._

**_Dame Sue Sylvester:_ ** _Also: Weigh-in on Wednesday. I don't want to see a single gram too much._

**_Dame Sue Sylvester:_ ** _Quinn, Santana: You stay an hour after practice, we're trying out the new flip-choreography._

**_Quinn Fabray:_ ** _Coach, I'm tutoring this afternoon. The seventh graders from McKinley Junior are writing a Biology test this Thursday._

**_Dame Sue Sylvester:_ ** _What do I care if those babies fail at Biology? Just because they're too stupid to tell male from female doesn't mean I'll let the Cheerios suffer because my HC is a softy._

I snort quietly. _Dame_ Sue Sylvester. That woman is crazy.

With a sigh, I gulp down my coffee. Coach's word is law—there's nothing I can do.

I look down at my belly, frowning. Did I gain weight over the weekend? It doesn't look that way, but then again, who knows? It doesn't have to show at the belly. I take another spoon or two from my yoghurt and then push it towards Rachel.

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Not hungry?"

I purse my lips. "I have a weigh-in on Wednesday."

"Coach Sylvester is such a bitch."

"I did not just hear that word come out of your mouth, Rachel Barbra Corcoran!"

Rachel whirls around. I didn't even notice Mom standing in the doorway until now.

"Um… I-I mean," Rachel turns to me with a helpless look on her face. "Coach Sylvester is really not that… nice."

Mom raises both her eyebrows. She places a stack of papers on the table and turns to my sister, handing her the concealer.

"I'm pretty sure there's a soap bar in the bathroom somewhere. Do you want to search for that or are you okay with the gel?"

Rachel lowers her head. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"I should hope so. I never want to hear either of you say something like that ever again, am I making myself clear?"

She sits down on her chair and conjures a pen up out of nowhere, bending over her papers.

"We'll leave in ten minutes. That gives you enough time to load the dishwasher, Rachel."

I watch how Rachel opens her mouth to protest and my well-placed kick against her shin comes right on time. She glares at me but gets up anyway to stack the plates and bowls and carry them to the dishwasher.

"Mom."

She looks up at me, pen still hovering over the paper. The red notes are outweighing the green ones on this one and, if my mind isn't mixing the letters up while turning them around, my mother's curved handwriting on the bottom of the page says _I'm sorry but did you even read the book?_

Nice, Mom. That kid is probably going to break out in tears.

"Coach is squeezing in Cheerio practice this afternoon, so I'll be at school until… 6:00 p.m. I guess."

She knits her brows together a little. "She's 'squeezing in' a three-hour practice?"

"Technically, it's two hours, but she wants Quinn and I to try out the new choreography."

"Should I pick you up afterwards?"

I shake my head. "No, it's alright. I'm just going to take the bus."

"Are you sure?" Mom narrows her eyes at me. "You're always so exhausted after Cheerio practice."

"I'm pretty sure Brittany is going to stay with us for the extra rehearsal and she always takes the bus. It's fine, Mom, bus rides with B are always fun."

Although Mom doesn't seem overly happy with that, she lets it go. I help Rachel with her concealer when she sits down next to me and together, we listen to the gurgling and rumbling of the dishwasher.

Mom scribbles notes on the assignments she's marking and every few seconds, a sigh escapes her when she has to cross something out in her students' writing.

A good 15 minutes later, I find myself in the passenger seat of my mother's car, trying to tune out Billie Eilish's "No Time To Die" that Rachel's been listening to in a continuous loop. I guess I should be thankful for the sudden change in her taste of music (I'm sure had I been forced to listen to "This is Me" one more time, I would've thrown up in the car) but even Billie can get a little annoying after listening to her songs for the umpteenth time on a single car ride.

Finally, Mom (more or less gently) forces her phone out of Rachel's hands and hands it over to me.

"Mo-om," whines Rachel on the back seat but Mom shakes her head.

"No, honey, Santana's going to choose the next song."

Rachel pouts, slumping back into her seat with a huff and I roll my eyes.

My song choice happens to be nothing, and I switch the radio off. Rachel mutters something under her breath and Mom actually sighs in relief.

"Thank you," she mouths at me and I turn away, chuckling.

Mom stops the car just behind the driveway to the school's parking lot and she turns in her seat to look at Rachel. There's a determined look on her face, her mouth is pinched into a thin line and a faint frown adorns her forehead.

"Rachel, honey, if anything happens— _anything_ , Rachel—I want you to call me immediately, alright?" She turns even further, twisting her body as she reaches out to take a hold of Rachel's knee. "If anyone so much as says a wrong word, you call me, you call Santana and you go to the principal's office. Darcy got away with a warning and a lecture because you asked me not to cause a scene, but if he—or any of his friends—do something like that again…"

Rachel sinks into her seat a little further. The threatening tone in our mother's voice doesn't go unnoticed by her either.

"I'm fed up with this," Mom says. "You convinced us it would get better, but I don't see any change coming and I won't stand by and do nothing."

"It _will_ get better," murmurs Rachel and I roll my eyes at her.

Geez, that girl can be so stubborn.

"And you _will_ call me," Mom squeezes her knee and turns around again. "Now, off you go."

Rachel is quick to unbuckle her seatbelt and collect her schoolbag from the empty seat beside her. She leans forward to kiss our mom's cheek and with a quick "Bye", she's out of the car.

"Mom?"

She turns to me, one eyebrow raised as if surprised that I'm still sitting next to her.

"They all know now, you know. Amy and Gramps… pretty sure the boys know too."

"So?"

I take a deep breath. "So, maybe you should call them."

Mom arches an eyebrow at me. "I was planning to call them today, yes."

I have a feeling she's slightly uncomfortable right now. Or perhaps it's amusement, but somehow, I can't say for sure. She hands me my schoolbag and gently pats my thigh.

"Mom?"

She stops. A tiny sigh escapes her lips. "Yes, sweetie?"

"What- What did he say to you that made you so… so upset?"

I can tell that she's definitely not expected that question. She pales a little and her left hand tightens around the steering wheel. "I don't think this is the right time to talk about this."

And I have a feeling she won't ever think it's the right time.

My brows are knit together in a faint frown, but I still get out of the car and shoulder my bag.

"And—Mom?"

"Santana?" She sounds as much annoyed as she sounds amused. It's a good combination; suits her soft and sharp features.

"He's not worth it anymore."

A tiny little smile appears on her lips. "Oh, sweetheart."

I close the door with a small slam and turn around to take Rachel's arm.

"What did you talk to her about?" She looks concerned, almost a little worried as if I'm going to tell her Mom just slipped back into her lifeless mode.

"I just told her about Amy and everyone," I pull her towards the school building.

The anxiety in my little sister is literally buzzing in the air around her. She hasn't really seen Ian Asshole Darcy in a week because Mom made Figgins suspend him for three days and Noah had a face-to-face with him the first day he was back, but those threats are never taken seriously for long. I squeeze her arm and she smiles weakly at me.

"You'll be okay," I tell her. "And if anyone looks askance at you, I'm gonna kick their ass."

Rachel grins a lopsided grin. "Which would be the last thing you'd do at all, because Mom would totally kill you."

Right beside the entrance to McKinley High is Noah—or Puck, respectively—leaning against the red brick wall with his arms crossed. He pushes himself from the wall and takes three steps towards us.

"Looking hot today," he grins, leaning down to kiss me.

Almost instinctively, I wrap an arm around his back and dig my fingers into his letterman jacket. "You think so?" I tuck myself into his side.

"Hey, Little Corcoran," Noah turns to Rachel. "The dumpster-boy is waiting for you, like 20 metres South."

He points down the hallway that leads towards the lockers and Rachel frowns a little. "That's East, Noah. And his name is Kurt."

She waves at me and takes off down the hallway.

"Remind me again how it's possible that you and Shorty are sisters?" says Noah and I grin.

"I have no idea. I'm still convinced they accidentally swapped babies at the hospital and gave my mom the wrong baby to carry home."

We turn the corner into the hallway with the lockers. Quinn and Brittany are waiting for us at Quinn's locker but right now I only have eyes for my little sister who's standing in the middle of the hallway, talking to Kurt—and actually looking content.

Which is strange because usually, Kurt and Rachel never seem to talk to each other outside of Glee. He's always hanging around with Mercedes who just happens to hate Rachel for some reason.

But Mercedes is nowhere to be seen and my fists finally unclench when I hear Rachel laugh.

"Hi bitches."

I shudder to a halt in front of Quinn and Brittany and pull them both in a quick hug. "What's up?"

Quinn frowns just a small bit. "Not much. Where were you yesterday?"

"Home," I wave a hand dismissively. "Mental health day."

She totally doesn't buy it but it's Quinn, so she lets it slide. She knows when you don't want to talk about something, and she doesn't force you to say anything. That's what's so awesome about her; she's just there for you when you need her, no questions asked.

Perhaps it's because she understands what it's like to be in a shitty family situation.

Even though she doesn't know that _I_ am in a shitty family situation right now.

* * *

"It could definitely do with one or two backflips less," Quinn says with a smirk.

She bends down to adjust her shoelaces and rests her forehead against her knees to stretch out a little.

"I'm all in for the backflips but I wouldn't complain if we'd cut it down to six cartwheels instead of ten," I slip into my hoodie. "I'm still dizzy."

At that moment, the door to the changing room opens and Brittany walks in, a huge smile on her face.

"That looked absolutely awesome," she drops down on the bench. "I was watching from the bleachers, you know, and it was thrilling."

She collects her bag from the lockers and slips into her jacket. "San, are you taking the bus?"

I nod. "Yup. Do I have to hurry?"

Brittany shakes her head. My legs are still trembling a little when I follow her out the door, waving Quinn goodbye. Coach made us run through the new choreography five times before she let us go, and to say that all those backflips and cartwheels and jumps are hard would be the understatement of the year. But it's for the Cheerios and I love the Cheerios, so I don't complain. At least not now and not here. Perhaps tonight at the dinner table while Mom makes some hot chocolate for her poor, worn-out daughter.

When Brittany and I stand at the bus stop, both shivering slightly in the cold, Brittany eventually breaks the silence.

"So… that mental health day. What was it for?"

I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my hoodie. "Nothing really. I just felt like it, you know?"

"And your mom actually let you stay home?" Brittany raises an eyebrow at me. "Isn't your mom, like super strict about school?"

"Yeah, I didn't expect her to say yes, either."

The thing with Brittany is that, even though she sometimes doesn't seem that way, she's actually super observant and in some way really smart. And, other than Quinn, she doesn't really let you close off and keep it all in.

Brittany narrows her eyes a little. "What's going on with you lately?"

"N-nothing."

I've never been more thankful for a bus to arrive and cut short a conversation but this time I practically run into the bus, like I'm being chased by some kind of monster.

But when Brittany sits down on a seat next to me, I know I won't get away with this just like that.

"And since when is nothing a reason to take a mental health day?"

I say nothing but simply lean forwards to plug invisible dust particles off my Cheerio uniform. Brittany huffs quietly next to me. "It's just that you seem so… I don't know, _off_ , lately."

"Do I?"

She nods. "Yes. You haven't invited me over to watch _Clueless_ in almost two weeks."

She doesn't even sound accusing, but still, I feel guilty about it. "Sorry."

"No, it's alright. I just- I was just wondering, you know?"

I wring my hands in my lap. "I- you don't have to worry about me, though. I'm fine."

"You don't seem to be."

The bus turns a sharp curve and Brittany's and my shoulder collide. She smirks. "Even Coach noticed it."

My head whips up. "What?"

"She asked us in her office yesterday, Quinn and Puck and me, and asked if we'd know what was going on with you. Something about that she couldn't have her co-captain walk around, spreading those negative-Nancy-vibes or something. And she said we should keep an eye on you; try to find out what's going on. Like some sort of secret agents."

I have the sudden urge to tell her that she's just kind of ruined the secretive part about the secret agents by telling me, but I keep my mouth shut. I'm slightly shocked that even Coach Sylvester noticed that something's off and I can't help but wonder who else noticed.

Especially, who noticed that something's off with Rachel. Because Rachel wears her heart on her sleeve and her feelings are usually pretty damn easy for everyone to see.

"She wanted to ask Rachel over too," Brittany says. "But then she found out that Rachel's sick as well. So, how come that she took a mental health day at the same day as you? Isn't that like, against the rules?"

"I didn't know that there were strict rules for mental health days," I want to say. But instead, I bite my lips and murmur quietly: "It wasn't really a mental health day."

Brittany sits up straight. "It wasn't?"

I run a hand across my forehead, sighing.

_I won't tell her. I won't tell her. I won't-_

"My family's kind of a mess right now," I whisper.

Brittany's face softens almost immediately. She leans closer as if trying to share a secret with me when it's actually me who's talking.

"M-My mom… she's just been really… down lately and- and then she called in sick on Monday—and Mom never calls in sick—and we were just so worried, so I phoned my grandmother and she called in sick for us as well."

Slowly, Brittany wraps an around my shoulders and pulls me into a quick hug. "Did something happen?"

I nod quietly.

"Something bad?"

"Something _really_ bad."

Brittany holds me a little tighter. "Fixable?"

"I hope so."

Tears are welling up in my eyes as I slowly lean back to look into my friend's eyes. She tilts her head to one side and wipes across my face with the hem of her hoodie.

"Is your mom gonna be okay?"

I look at my fingers for a second. "I guess."

Brittany purses her lips as if deep in thought. She slips her hand on my lap to take my hand. "Should I come over tomorrow night and bring Lord Tubbington and we can all watch some sappy Disney movie, you, your mom and Rachel and I?"

I laugh through my impending tears. "My mom's like, super allergic to cats."

"What did she do that the universe hates her so much?" Brittany pokes a finger into my side, and I squirm a little.

The bus slows down as it approaches the bus stop where I have to get out.

"You're the best, B, you know that?" I say as I stand up.

"I'm gonna bring Popcorn instead," she shouts after me. "Tell your mom and Rachel to cancel all their appointments tomorrow afternoon."

I blow her a kiss.

Suddenly, the thought of watching a sappy Disney movie with Mom and Rachel (who are absolute suckers for sappy Disney movies and never get through one without tearfully singing along to at least two songs) doesn't seem all that repulsive anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dk if you noticed (i bet you did it's pretty obvious) but i decided not to write Brittany as "dumb" (i don't think that she's dumb in the series... there's a lowkey brilliance to what she says sometimes. she's just thinking differently than the others which makes her kinda special and everything) i think she's hilarious in the series and i love that about her but it doesn't really fit into this story so... just wanted to explain why i did that.   
> byeeeee


	12. Forget Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is the same-titled song by Selena Gomez

** Chapter 12  
** **Forget Forever**

**Santana.**

The first thing I hear, when I step through the front door and shrug off my jacket, is my mother's pacing in the room next door. It's a nervous kind of pacing. As far as pacing can be 'nervous', at least.

I kick off my shoes and stuff my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie as I make my way through the hallway. Rachel is sitting in the kitchen. Although I don't think that 'sitting' really is the correct description for her current position. She seems caught between standing up and sitting down—palms pressed against the tabletop as if pushing herself up, but her body still seated on the chair, though on the very edge of it. Her eyes only break away from the door to the living room for a split second when she notices me standing in the hallway. "Hi, San."

Her voice isn't more than a whisper. I frown. "Hi, Rachel."

She raises a finger to her lips. "Shh. Mom's calling Aunt Amy."

"Ah, so that's why she's pacing," I whisper back and quietly drop my bag on the floor as I make my way to the door of the living room. When I press my ear against the door and hold my breath, I can even hear the ringing of the phone.

Mom seems to think we're all deaf and wouldn't hear the person at the other end of the phone if the call volume wasn't turned up to the upmost. That's why after every single call with Gramps, my ears are literally bleeding. His voice is loud enough as it is.

Someone shifts beside me and for a second, I can't focus on the noises inside the living room. Then, Rachel presses her ear flat against the wooden door next to me.

Her brown eyes are wide, and the excitement is so clear in them that I can literally feel it rubbing off on me. We nod at each other and hold our breath and listen.

The phone rings three- four- five times with my mother's steps in time. Then, she stops pacing and I can almost see her standing to the side of the room, her long fingers grazing the blue vase on the shelf.

I take another breath. Then-

_"Hello?"_

"Amy? It's Shelby."

_"Oh, thank God!"_

There's a short pause and I can hear my mom taking a deep, bracing breath, readying herself to talk. But Amy beats her to it.

 _"I thought you'd never call."_ Pause. _"How are you? How are the girls?"_

Mom sighs. "The girls are… fine, I guess. They've been better, though. Listen, Amy, I'm so sorry I didn't call you before. I just couldn't get myself to do it."

_"It's alright, Shelbs, I understand. Really, I do. But you're dodging the question."_

Of course, she is. Mom is a master of dodging questions.

"Huh?"

See? That's what I mean.

_"You didn't answer my question, Shelbs. How are you?"_

I can hear my mom shift from one foot to the other. "I'm… getting there."

 _"You're getting there,"_ says Amy at the other end of the phone. I can hear the way she raises her eyebrows in her voice. _"From what I've heard, you sat on the couch for two days straight and stared at a glass of wine. How is that 'getting there'?"_

With a sigh, Mom starts pacing again. Her heels click against the wooden floor, sink into the carpet and clang against the coffee table.

"It's fine, Amy. It really is. I'm-"

_"Don't tell me that you're fine, Shelby. You're not. And you don't have to be, okay?"_

There's a strange noise at the other end of the phone as Amy pours herself some water.

_"You're pulling yourself together, yes. But you're not fine. Better than I would be—we both know I'd be a basket case by now—because you're the tough one. You're strong and you're tough but that doesn't mean you're fine all the time."_

"I know, Amy."

 _"And we're all there for you,"_ Amy stops for a second to sip her water. _"I'm your sister, Shelbs—I want to be there for you. And you can call whenever you want, okay? Even at 3 a.m."_

Mom is completely quiet for a moment. Then, she says, "Thank you, Amy."

_"There's nothing to thank me for."_

There's a quiet shuffling in the living room as Mom sits down on the couch.

 _"I'd like to know something though, Shelby. In those two days when you were—according to the girls—staring at a glass of wine,"_ she pauses. _"Were you drinking?"_

Silence.

If we had a ticking clock, this would be the perfect time for it to tick away. Instead, there's only silence. For a few agonizing seconds. My heart beats a little faster. Oh God, silence before an answer… that can only mean-

"No, I wasn't. You know I'm not one for drinking, Amy. It doesn't get you anywhere."

_"Then what exactly were you doing?"_

That's a very good question.

"I wasn't doing anything. I was just… thinking."

_"Thinking? About what?"_

Mom sighs. She's been doing that a lot lately. And it's not something I'm feeling overly happy about. She shifts on the couch and I imagine her stroking her long, brown hair out of her forehead because that's what she usually does when she sighs. It's like a routine to compose herself. And it always works.

"How much did Mom tell you about the dance recital incident?"

Rachel and I exchange a look. The dance recital incident. So, it has a name now. Again, something I'm not overly happy about.

 _"Bits and pieces,"_ answers Amy. _"That Cassie was already glaring him to death when you disappeared into the cloakroom and that you had a breakdown in the car afterwards."_

There's a short pause.

"So, she didn't tell you about what- what he said?"

_"How could she? She said you didn't tell her anything at all. You just broke down in tears."_

"Right," I can _hear_ my mom cringe. "So—as you can imagine—it didn't go well. He- He kind of blamed me."

_"He WHAT?!"_

My fists clench. That stupid asshole. That stupid fucking asshole.

"He said some things… that I was always gone, and he didn't see me for weeks—months even. He said it was hard to continue loving me because he didn't see me more than once or twice a day-"

 _"He did_ not _say that. How could he say that?"_

"He said I loved Broadway more than him. That I was struggling because I missed it so much but never seemed to struggle when I was away from him," Mom's voice gets thinner with every second passing—as though someone was strangling her—and her words waver a little. My heart clenches. "According to him, I never asked him if this was how he wanted our life to be. I just did what I wanted and never stopped to ask him if he'd like it to be different. I was being selfish, he said; that was what drove him away from me."

My jaw slacks open. Who in the actual hell does that man think he is? What's wrong with him that he dares to blame this on Mom!?

 _"I can't believe he said that!"_ Amy is fuming at the other end of the phone. _"How did he come up with that? You didn't believe him, Shelby, did you?"_

The silence in our living room is answer enough.

 _"Shelby, no! Listen to me; this is_ not—your—fault _. You gave up your dreams for him—for your family. You worked for all of that so hard for so long and you decided to step down_ for him _. He's at fault, Shelby._ He cheated on you _. Gosh, that he even has the nerves to blame you—I can't believe it!"_

"It's what I was thinking about," Mom says quietly. "If he had a point—no, let me finish! I- I thought about all of that. When we first met, he didn't care one bit about my fame or my money or my anything. He cared about _me_. When I ran into him that night at the stage door, he didn't know me—nor my name. He didn't give one second thought on Broadway and musicals and all that stuff. And the first few months when we were dating… they were rough. For him, I think. Because I was still living the high of my Tony nomination and my career was soaring. But he grounded me. He kept me from becoming even more of a diva than I already was. And when we got married, I was still working eight shows a week and I only stopped when I found out that I was pregnant with Santana. We talked about all that—family and work—and I went back to college and I really thought it wasn't going to be so hard—leaving Broadway and New York behind. But it was. I was in an awful mood at first and it only got better after Santana was born. Then David got the job in Lima, so we moved here, and I had just been invited to do the movie. I didn't think I would be able to do it and I remember that the nights before I had to decide, I lay awake all night long, balancing pros and cons and whatever. I only did the movie because the director was so understanding, and we got an apartment in LA that was partly funded by sponsors, so David and Santana were nearby, and I wasn't away from them for too long. But in hindsight, I can't say it wasn't selfish.”

_"Shelby, that's-"_

"Let me explain,” I hear my mother standing up from the couch. The pacing is a lot slower than before but it's still there and it's still freaking me out. "He had just gotten his job at the office. We had just established ourselves and we were still adjusting, and I took the job offer and forced us out of here for weeks. Of course, we talked about it before and he said it was alright. But it wasn't. Not really. Then, when I was pregnant with Rachel, I decided to hang it all up—at least for the time being. I just wanted to be with the girls—I didn't want to miss out on anything. But the work at Carmel… it was hard. It was hard and demanding, especially when Vocal Adrenaline began to compete—when they got to the big leagues. I worked a lot—I still do—but I tried to keep it at an okay level. There was the _Peaceful Minds_ movie next and I- I knew it would keep me away from my family for two months but- I just needed to do it. I needed the whole buzz again, the high from the Galas and the shootings. I'd missed it. But I didn't really think about what it would be like for David. I asked him, of course, but I probably also would've done it had he said no. Then I kept a low profile again for a few years. But I always kept coaching Vocal Adrenaline. I was—and I still am—at work every day till noon and sometimes longer, I sometimes had to leave for a weekend for Regionals or Nationals or preparation camp or whatever. I was busy—I _am_ busy. And my career has always been a big part of my life. So, I can't help but think that I was, perhaps, from time to time, a little selfish and a little too concerned about my image and Broadway and _my dreams_."

Mom sighs deeply. "So, that's what I was thinking about. I was trying to decide whether he was right or not; whether I'd been too selfish and too self-centred and too focused on what I wanted and what I thought best."

It's completely quiet for a second. Then, Aunt Amy says, _"While staring at a glass of wine?"_

"While staring at a glass of wine," Mom laughs drily.

She stands still, her voice suddenly full of confidence and certainty and _strength_. It's the voice that's usually my mother's. It's the voice of an actress. It's the voice that I've missed since that fateful day almost two weeks ago.

"I'm not the one at fault."

I deflate a little. Thank Goodness.

"I'm might not have been the perfect girlfriend and the perfect wife to David" -bullshit. Utter bullshit- "But I tried. I might have been a little selfish over the years but—who isn't? I didn't force him to go to that other woman. He chose to cheat on me for three years instead of confronting me about the things that bothered him. He should've done that; he could've prevented a lot of pain and anger. Not the heartbreak—it still would've been horrible—but the intensity of it. He could've made it easier for the family. But he chose to make it easier for himself."

_"And it took you two days to realise that?"_

Mom sighs. She sits down again, probably on the piano bench that stands (alone and without a 'matching' piano) in the corner of the rom. "No. It took me one day to manage to keep myself from going nuts." -I'm so going to kill that man when I see him again- "The other was spent with pondering over that, though."

Aunt Amy's sigh is a lot heavier than Mom's. Through the phone, it's a little muted and has a slightly electronic edge to it but it's still deep and heavy and _concerned_. _"Shelby, perhaps you should take a few days off."_

"A day off? Amy, I don't take days off. I just don't do it."

 _"No, you don't_ allow yourself _to take a day off. But you should. I can't imagine how stressful everything must be for you right now and you don't need school and show choir on top of that."_

"Amy," I can literally see Mom running a hand through her hair. "I took a day off just yesterday and look what I did to myself. It's not healthy."

_"Yes, but this isn't healthy either!"_

"I know that," Mom says. "But right now, it's the only way I can keep my- my head above the water. It's that and the girls—I don't know what I'd do without them."

_"How are they anyway?"_

"I think they're doing rather well—considering everything that's been going on. Santana is- well, she's Santana, you know. She's got that Spanish temper in her—her Granny through and through—and she's been… back to the insults, if you know what I mean."

_"Soap-bar-worthy insults?"_

Mom chuckles. "Some of them. She's just so angry, you know. And that's totally justified if you ask me."

_"What about Rachel?"_

"Rachel… I think this is a lot harder on her. She- she's still so… innocent, so naïve. But a good naïve. And all this- it's really getting to her, I think. She's starting to understand that the world isn't all fun and beautiful and Broadway and that's hard on her."

I raise an eyebrow at my sister. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and her brows are knit together. Mom is right. And I think Rachel is just now starting to realise that she's right. Her eyes widen a little and she reaches out to take my hand.

I nod my head at her. _It's okay_.

"And some jocks at school have been bothering her a lot lately," Mom says just then.

_"The slushies again?"_

"Yes, exactly. And they threatened her. It's really not okay anymore—not that it ever was—and I'm starting to lose my patience here."

_"I still don't understand why your kids aren't going to Carmel with you. That would be so much easier for all of you."_

"I know but they didn't want to go to Carmel. And I understand, really; I wouldn't have wanted Mom around at High School either. It's all about getting away from your parents, forming your own opinions and your own morals and all that; it's about experimenting and trying things out that your parents don't—and don't want to—know about. But when your mother is a teacher at your own High School, you can't really have all that," Mom stretches out one leg, her heel scratching across the wooden floor. "And for Santana, McKinley is perfect. Their cheerleading squad has won the National Championship four years in a row and they really support the sport programs. But when it comes to Rachel, I'm starting to regret letting her go to McKinley. Music and theatre kids are picked on and the arts don't get the support and the funding they need; their Glee club is full of powerhouses of talent but I don't think their coach has what it needs to get them to win Nationals and- and I really hate how the teachers and the principal are dealing with the bullying. You know, the things they do there… it verges on assault. And I don’t think I'll stand by, watching much longer."

At the other end of the phone, Aunt Amy takes a sip from her water. _"I still don't get why you haven't caused a scene yet. I mean, you could just storm into that fraud's office, yell at him to better get the bullying to stop or you'll have Kathy Williams or whatever do a big story on what a sorry excuse of a principal he is as the front page of the next issue and that would be it."_

Mom sighs. "I know. But Rachel asked me not to do anything. She- she said it would get better—that it always takes her some time to make friends and everything. But I don't see anything getting better and it's been four months."

_"Perhaps you should talk about it with her again."_

I cast a look at Rachel. Yes, she definitely should.

"I will. Trust me I won't let this go by just like that. Those kids at school are ruthless and Rachel's too goodhearted to see that."

Rachel scrunches up her nose beside me. She doesn't want to hear it, but it's true. Rachel _is_ too goodhearted; she sometimes even defends the stupid assholes that throw slushies at her.

_"Shelbs, I have to get going now. Jonathan's newest fad is basketball and he insists that I come to watch the last twenty minutes of training."_

"God, I'm so glad the girls aren't into all those ball sports. I'd be hiding behind a corner at every single match."

Amy laughs. _"You're so weird, Shelby, really. Who the hell is afraid of a ball?"_

"I'm not afraid of them," Mom protests. "I just don't want to risk being hit in the face by one."

 _"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,"_ Amy says with an amused snort. _"Call me when you need to talk, okay?"_

"Of course, Amy."

_"Bye. Love you."_

"Love you too."

I jerk away from the door and shove Rachel towards the kitchen, racing after her.

Just as we sit down at the kitchen table, the door to the living room opens and Mom steps out. A smile appears on her lips when she spots us.

"Hi, sweetie," she places a kiss on my head and ruffles Rachel's hair. "How was your practice?"

"Very, very, _very_ exhausting," I groan. "The new choreography is super fun but also super demanding. Coach makes us do like, ten cartwheels and then two backflips straight after—I still don't know how I wasn't puking my guts out after that."

Mom grimaces. "My poor baby."

She pats my hand and smiles. "Would you like some hot chocolate? I even bought shortbread to dip in."

My face lights up. "God yes! You're such a saint."

Mom laughs. "And you're such a toady."

She turns around and takes three mugs from the cupboard. There's a weird sort of elegance to her movements; grace and prudence. It's how she moved _before,_ and my heart skips a beat when I realise that she's doing it again.

Despite everything that Amy said, she _is_ getting there. Slowly but surely.

"What would you like for dinner, girls?" Mom asks, turning to look at us. "I have some leftovers from yesterday, but we could still eat that tomorrow."

Rachel purses her lips. "What else do you have in mind?"

"I was thinking about pasta. We haven't had that in a while."

I shrug and Rachel tells Mom to do whatever she likes best.

"So, pasta it is for today," Mom announces and it's just then that I remember.

"Hey, are you free tomorrow afternoon?"

Rachel and Mom both raise an eyebrow at me. "Why?"

"What for?"

"Well, Brittany kind of invited herself over for a sappy-Disney-movie night."

Mom frowns. "And on the occasion of what exactly?"

Shit, she's suspicious. She's always so suspicious. (And always right about it.)

I squirm a little under her watchful look. "She kind of knows that something's going on right now and-"

"You told her?" Mom slams the jar with the cocoa powder on the kitchen counter.

"No, of course not," I hurry. "You told us not to tell anyone."

Rachel grimaces next to me but I ignore her. "I just- she noticed that I was in a mood and I just told her that something's going on and that you're not doing that well" -Mom's lips become a thin line- "And she didn't ask why and I didn't tell, but she said she'd come over to watch sappy Disney movies."

Mom's face softens a little, but I can tell that she's still not that happy about it.

"At first, she wanted to bring Lord Tubbington along, but I convinced her it wouldn't be a good idea, so she's bringing popcorn instead."

Mom raises an eyebrow. "Lord Tubbington? That sounds like the name of some expensive dressage horse or something."

I laugh. "It's her cat."

"Even worse."

"Kinda cute," says Rachel. "But Mom's right. It could absolutely be a horse's name. Those equestrians have a nut loose."

Mom nods. "They have, haven't they? When the summariser announce the next starter, I never really know who's the rider and who's the horse."

She laughs as she disguises her voice. " _And starting the Jump Off next is Lady Parker with Lord Tubbington."_

It's good to see her laugh like this and I can't stop myself from chuckling along. "I don't think Lord Tubbington would be a good jumping horse, though. He's really fat."

Somehow, we end up annotating an entire horse jumping competition with _Lady Parker_ and _Lord Tubbington_ and poor Lady Parker gets tossed off twice while we drink our hot chocolate. My stomach hurts from laughing and Rachel is sitting more next to her chair than on it.

Mom wipes away a few tears of laughter, then she starts on dinner and Rachel and I go into our rooms. Or Rachel _tries_ to go into her room, but I hold her back and pull her with me down the hallway.

“Hey, what-"

I close the door behind me. “Whom did you tell?”

Rachel recoils. “Wh-what?”

“Whom did you tell about Dad?”

“I-I- _You_ told Brittany!”

“No, I didn’t,” I shake my head. “I told her that our family’s kind of going through some shit, but I did _not_ tell her.”

"That's basically the same,” Rachel crosses her hands in front of her. “And how would you know if I told anyone?”

"So, you admit it?" I shake my head. "God, Rachel, Mom didn't ask us not to tell anyone for no reason."

"I know that! But i-it just happened; I didn't plan on telling."

I purse my lips. "So? Whom did you tell?"

"I-I," Rachel looks down at her fingers. "Jesse."

"Who the hell is Jesse?!"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "It's only Mom's student. No reason to go all big protective sister on me."

" _Only_ Mom's student?! You mean that super arrogant St Jerk boy? Are you _crazy_?!"

I'm _this close_ to grabbing her by both shoulders and shaking some sense into her.

"He promised not to tell anyone and-"

"Of course, he did!" I rake a hand through my hair. God, that girl is going to drive me crazy one day. "He promised so you'd tell him. Rachel, Mom's going to kill you."

"She is not," Rachel shakes her head. "She won't even find out."

I almost punch the wall next to her. "You're so stupid sometimes. So damn naïve."

Rachel snorts angrily. "Santana, he _promised not to tell_! And he was really shocked and-"

"And he is an actor, Rachel!" I snap. "He's going to go to Julliard or something. He was trying to get information. And you were so stupid and just told him."

"He was _worried_ , okay?!" Rachel stomps her foot and it looks so childish that I almost laugh. "He was really worried about Mom and it's not like I told him straight out 'My father cheated on her and now she's in the living room, staring at a glass of wine'. I said some things and he- he figured it out."

I can't help but shake my head. "But… Mom's student, Rachel? Really? She's going to notice his pity and she's going to make him sing. And then you're screwed."

"Thanks for your confidence in me and my choices, Santana," Rachel spits. "And you told Brittany too. She's coming for a movie night tomorrow; she's going to notice what's wrong."

"Yeah but she's not Mom's student," I cross my arms in front of me.

Rachel turns around with a scoff. "Yeah ok. You keep on pretending you did everything fine."

With that, she opens the door and leaves. I sink down on my bed with a sigh.

I hate fighting with Rachel and, although this was only a small argument, it's still getting to me. I don't want to fight with her over things like this—not now when she should stick together.

* * *

When Brittany arrives the next afternoon for the movie night, Mom is just showing me how to get the frosting on the cupcake Corcoran-style and she leaves me standing there, icing bag full of whipped cream and Oreo crumbs and other stuff that I forgot the second Mom told me what it is in my hands, to open the door for Brittany.

"Hi, Shelby," I hear her chirp and, leaning towards the door, I see how she hugs my mom.

She's holding two paper bags of popcorn. "I brought sweet and salty popcorn—I hope that's alright."

Mom smiles. "Of course, it is. Come on in. Santana is just decorating the cupcakes."

"Cupcakes?" Brittany's face lights up. "Awesome!"

Turns out that I'm the only person that can't make the perfect twirl of cream on a cupcake and everyone else can do it with both eyes closed. But that's fine with me—I just sit down and watch as Mom, Brittany and Rachel try to out-decorate each other.

Once we've all settled down on the couch surrounded with popcorn and cupcakes, orange juice and soda, we try to decide which movie to watch. (Which takes us almost ten minutes because—God, there're so many good Disney movies.) In the end, we settle on _Beauty and the Beast_ and Brittany sits down between my legs with the salty popcorn in her lap and Rachel finds an empty place on the floor in front of Mom who begins to braid her hair without really watching what she's doing. The braid still turns out beautiful and Rachel kisses her cheek and tucks herself into her side.

Brittany doesn't ask where our father is. Not even when it's already 7:00 p.m. and he should've been home an hour ago. She doesn't ask and we don't have to explain; we don't have to remember.

We just watch one sappy Disney movie after the other and forget.


	13. Distance and Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... i've finally caught up with ff.net this story is now up-to-date. i'll try to update soon (and not forget that i have to update it on here too)
> 
> chapter title is the same-titled song by Alicia Keys

** Chapter 13  
** **Distance and Time**

**Shelby.**

With the help of sweet, innocent Brittany, a variety of popcorn versions and a (debatably) healthy amount of Disney and Lifetime Original movies, the Corcorans get through the rest of the week without any complications. Of course, there's still an occasional choke on a word like 'husband' and Shelby still can't wrap her head around the fact that the other side of her bed will probably always be empty and cold at night from now on. But all in all, they're doing fine.

Well, not _fine_ , but as good as they can get right now. They're working on it.

Santana, although complaining and whining about it constantly, enjoys her extra practices for the new cheerleading choreographies on Thursday and Saturday and gets home with slumped shoulders and an insatiable need of sleep and Rachel's dance instructor has granted them all a week off after the recital to 'cool down from the high of the performance'.

But Rachel being Rachel, she doesn't let anyone tell her to 'cool off', so she does two hours of yoga and stretching every day and goes running on Thursday and Sunday to keep her energy up. She practices a few dances for her next jazz dance classes and drives Shelby crazy with her jumping and whirling.

And Shelby has been spending the last few days working on their setlist for Sectionals. It's still one month away—they had to postpone it until January because of the hurricane that was said to hit the coast—but Shelby likes to get a head start.

Brittany invites herself over on Friday as well and again, doesn't ask any questions. It's deliberating, really, to just spend time with someone who isn't at an all all-time low, who doesn't fear they're all going to fall apart at every second. She knows, Shelby is sure of that. She knows because David doesn't come home in the evening and no one talks about it. She knows because Rachel refuses to watch _Love Actually_ which usually is one of her favourite movies around Christmas.

Saturday night, Shelby finally finishes the setlist and mails it to her Vocal Adrenaline students along with a detailed rehearsal schedule until five days before Sectionals. She gets a few enraged replies from fuming parents—because how dare she keep their lovely children at school till 6 p.m. _twice a week_ until Christmas break—that she wisely ignores and mostly rolls her eyes at. She already knows the concept; parents think their children are angels and their teachers are slave drivers, so the teachers get a whole lot of calls and emails (that verge on threatening letters, really) and, in the end, they call Principal Adkins and the woman has to explain that—it's Mrs Corcoran's right to rehearse until 6 p.m. if she thinks it's necessary for them to win the competition—and eventually, the whole turmoil dies down and all it got them is an exploding email inbox, a few hours of wasted time on pointless calls and some strained vocal chords here and there. So, to spare herself all the stress and anger, Shelby simply ignores the emails and marks them as 'read' with a few clicks on her laptop.

So, the week comes to an end with a strange sort of peacefulness in her mind and all that Shelby can think when she goes to bed that Sunday night is how she never knew what calming effect a Disney movie night can have.

"Mom?"

Shelby turns around, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes, honey?"

Rachel is standing in the doorway, her hair still wet from her shower and a grey cardigan hung loosely around her shoulders.

"Will you braid my hair?" She holds the brush out to her mother with an almost sheepish smile.

"Of course. Come here."

Shelby beckons her to the bed and places her hands on Rachel's shoulders to get her to sit down on the floor in front of her. She runs her fingers through her daughter's dark hair. "What kind of braid?"

"I don't know. Do whatever you like," Rachel shrugs.

She leans against Shelby's legs as she begins to brush her hair.

"So, do you think you stand a chance of winning at Sectionals?" She sounds almost uninterested and if Shelby didn't know better, she'd probably believe the insignificance of the question.

Shelby pauses, her fingers halfway sunk in Rachel's hair. "I think we're investing much time and devotion to the competition and most of the times, those that work the hardest are rewarded best."

It's the subtle Shelby-Corcoran-way of telling her that she's absolutely sure they're going to win—a modest kind of self-confidence. Her fingers still entangled in Rachel's brown tresses, Shelby leans forward to press a kiss to the girl's temple. “You'll get your chance as well, honey, I know you will.”

Rachel shifts in front of her.

"But no one actually _likes_ Glee at McKinley. We're never going to get enough members,” her voice is thick with tears and she raises her hand to wipe at her nose. "We're never going to make it to Nationals like this."

"Honey, there's still so much time for you to get there. Don't let this one time get you down."

Her fingers work themselves through Rachel's wet hair as she begins to divide it in three sections to braid a Dutch braid from the very top of her daughter's head.

"Yes, but what if we lose at Regionals or Sectionals next time? Mr Schue told us that Coach Sylvester is forcing Principal Figgins to cut our funding if we don't win and then Glee club is going to be over and my resume is going to be so empty and I'll never get into NYADA or Julliard or-"

"Honey," Shelby gently tugs at a strand of her daughter's hair. "Rachel, stop it. Your resume is anything but empty; you've been dancing since you're five, you've been in six musical productions at local community theatres and you're in three different theatre and music related extra-curricular activities. If you don't get into NYADA then I don't know who is. Don't get all worked up about this, Rachel, please. This isn't the end of the world."

"It sure feels like that," Rachel sniffs quietly and Shelby pats her shoulder.

"It isn't, honey, I can assure you that," she says. "And even if you don't get into NYADA" -Rachel stiffens at that- "that doesn't mean you can't make it on Broadway. I wasn't in NYADA or Julliard or anything like that and I still managed to work myself to the top, didn't I?"

Rachel nods slowly.

"See?" Shelby presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "You don't have to worry about all that, Rachel. You're going to do so many great things, NYADA graduate or not, I know that."

For a moment, it's completely quiet in the room. Then, Rachel says quietly, "Do you really think that?"

Shelby pauses. "Rachel, honey, where's all that self-doubt coming from by all sudden? Did someone do something? Did they write those awful comments on your MySpace page again?"

"No, nothing happened," Rachel shakes her head. "It's just- After the recital, I- I just felt like I'd messed that dance at the end up and-"

"You stop right there," Shelby sits up straight.

She's just finished braiding her daughter's hair and quickly fixes it with a hairband before grabbing Rachel by both her shoulders to turn her around and force her to look at her. "Rachel, you were extraordinary on that stage. You danced beautifully and you touched everyone's heart in that auditorium, trust me, you did. I know the… happenings after that didn't give you the chance to receive the praise and attention you would've liked—and I'm really sorry about that—but, honey, you were absolutely great. And when we got into the foyer, everyone was talking about how awesome you'd been."

Rachel cheeks glow with pride and perhaps even a small bit of embarrassment and she looks down into her lap.

"You don't have to be sorry," she says quietly.

Shelby raises her eyebrows. "Come again?"

"You don't have to be sorry, Mom," Rachel reaches out to take her mother's hand. "It wasn't your fault. It was Dad's for showing up at all. No one wanted him there and he still came."

"Of course, he did. He's your Dad, Rachel, he wanted to see you dance."

Rachel purses her lips. "But he knew that I—that _we_ —didn't want him there. He should've given us some space and time."

"I know," Shelby sighs. "Believe me, I know."

She shifts and tucks one foot underneath her, gathering Rachel up in her arms.

"I'm glad you're okay again, Mom," Rachel says quietly and Shelby presses a kiss into her hair.

"Me too, honey."

She wraps her arms a little tighter around her daughter and rocks back and forth like she used to when Rachel was a baby and fussing and crying—unable to find the rest that she needed. It still has a calming effect on her now. Just that the tiny little baby with the olive skin and the dark brown eyes grew up into a soon-to-be 15-years-old that Shelby can't quite lift into her arms and press against her chest like she did. But Rachel still fits into her arms perfectly; the dip of her waist allows Shelby to rest her arms a little and she's just the perfect height for Shelby to rest her chin on either Rachel's shoulder or her head.

"Mom, would you be okay with it if I went to Kurt's tomorrow after school?"

The question takes Shelby by surprise and, for a second, the rocking stops. "To Kurt's?"

Rachel nods. "Yes. You know, ever since I stepped up for him at the dumpster, he kind of walked me to class and we had lunch together and stuff and he asked if I wanted to come over and have a makeover and things like that."

Shelby can't help but smile. It's long overdue that one of those schoolkids start to notice what a great girl her daughter is, and she couldn't be happier for Rachel but-

"So, Kurt, huh?"

Rachel turns in her mother's arms, one eyebrow raised. "Yes, Kurt. What about him?"

"He's a boy and he seems to be nice and if you are going to his tomorrow and-"

"Oh my God, Mom, no!" Rachel exclaims—almost horror-struck. "Kurt and I are just friends. And he's gay, Mom. God."

Shelby’s shoulder slump in relief and she lets out a breathy laugh. “Alright then, I just wanted to check.”

She fiddles with the end of Rachel's braid and slowly sinks against the headboard of the bed. Her daughter's cheeks are flaming red and she shifts awkwardly. The embarrassment is written clearly on her face and Shelby sighs inwardly. She remembers the way she felt when her mother sat her down and tried talking to her about boys and relationships and sex and all those uncomfortable topics a teenager doesn't want to talk to their mother about. It was right before Shelby went to a sleepover with a few of her (boy) friends and her mother was concerned one of the boys might make a move on her. Which wasn't all that unjustified since teenage-Shelby had a huge crush on one of them. But thanks to her so-called 'fears of commitment', nothing happened. But still, that moment when her mother sat her down on the toilet seat and said "I want to talk to you about something, Shelby" really stuck to her. She's pretty sure she'll never forget the uneasiness and shame that was surging through her entire body in that moment.

Still, Shelby has to ignore the embarrassment that's probably filling her daughter right now and go on with what has to be said.

"You know that you can come to me and talk to me about anything, right, Rachel?" she lets the softness of the consonants wrap around the vowels, weaving the seriousness, the meaning of her words through the silences between her words.

It's a luring sensation, a soft call of a siren. Something she doesn't do intentionally but rather something that just happens—as if the actress, the practiced singer that knows at heart how to entrance a crowd of thousands of people, takes over and leads her into this measured way of talking.

Rachel, seemingly oblivious to the thoughts behind the words, cocks her head to one side. "Um… Mom, Kurt is _gay_."

Shelby sits us straight and, tucking a strand of dark hair behind Rachel's ear, she takes her daughter's hands. "I heard you, honey, I'm not talking about Kurt."

"Yeah well, there's not really anyone, so…" Rachel squirms before her. "There's nothing to talk about right now."

Shelby can't say she's not relieved. In fact, she feels as if a whole lot of tension just left her body with a swoosh.

"But still," she says. "I want you to know that you can talk to me. I won't judge. Ever."

Rachel simply tucks herself into her side, sighing. "I know."

She drapes one leg over Shelby's and snuggles closer. "So, can I go to Kurt's tomorrow?"

"Of course, honey."

"Thanks, Mom."

And with a squeal, she hops out of the bed. "Night."

Shelby's lips curl into a small smile. "Sleep tight."

* * *

The next morning is the most normal one in weeks. Not the old normal that contained a certain husband making breakfast and kissing Shelby on the cheek while she applied her mascara, but the _new_ normal. The one that has Shelby setting the table at 7:10 a.m. and finishing marking some assignments while slowly, a tired Santana creeps into the kitchen and falls into the chair next to her. Rachel, strictly sticking to her routine of half an hour on the elliptical, is the last one to make her way into the kitchen.

They all have fallen into a routine by now; Shelby, for example, is used to waking up ten minutes earlier, she knows exactly when to pour the milk into Santana's cereal so it's still crunchy and when to cut the avocado so it's fully prepared the moment the toast is ready.

It's not any different this morning; Shelby has to poke Santana twice, so she doesn't fall asleep at the table even before Rachel comes downstairs and the assignments she has to mark are still as bad as they were last week.

Rachel enters the kitchen with a huge smile on her face and Santana rolls her eyes at her sister's enthusiastic “Good morning". She skips through the kitchen to take her plate from Shelby's hands and the mother bends sideways to let Rachel kiss her cheek.

"Morning, honey,” she raises her eyebrows in amusement when she hears Rachel humming quietly. "Slept well?”

Rachel pauses and the smile wavers for a second. It's enough to tell Shelby that it's not all perfect and ideal, although her daughter recovers quickly. "I'm just excited about going to Kurt's, that's all.”

At that, Santana sits up straight. "You're going to Kurt's? Isn't he friends with that Mercedes chick that's always trashing you?”

"They've been fighting a lot, lately,” Rachel shrugs it off but everyone with two good eyes can see that it's something that bothers her. "Because of Glee, you know? Kurt was trying to get her to come back but she didn't want to and- well, Glee is important to Kurt too.”

Slowly, almost hesitantly so, Shelby puts down the pen she's holding. She clasps her hands in front of her and leans onto her elbows. "Speaking of Glee, girls" -she pokes a finger into Santana's side who's seemingly falling asleep again- "Rachel said they still needed a few more members to be able to compete at Sectionals and you, Santana, are a very good singer and a remarkably good dancer—which both are traits a Glee club can never get enough of—so-"

"Wait," Santana puts up a hand. "Are you suggesting that I join Glee club?"

Rachel's face lights up with a 300-wat smile. "Mom, that's the best idea ever!" She turns to Santana. "And you could ask Brittany and Quinn to join too, then we'd have a good number of good dancers as well."

Shelby doesn't say that in Vocal Adrenaline, it's essential to be a good dancer. It's either all or nothing—that's what makes them so exceptionally good; what made them win two national championships.

Her head tilted to one side, Shelby watches Santana press her lips to a thin line.

"I'm sorry but Glee is not at all my kind of thing."

"You don't know that; you love dancing and you like singing and Glee club is just that."

"Yeah, but it's also jumping around on a stage in matching outfits and trying not to get hit in the face by Frankenteen while he whirls around with his arms in a sorry attempt of dancing," Santana frowns. "How did you even get Finn to join?"

Rachel deliberately ignores her sister's question as she says, "Well, if you'd join you could show everyone some good dance moves, you know? Of course, _some of them_ aren't good at dancing if there's no one to teach them how."

She leans closer to place a hand on Santana's arm. "Just think about it, San, you and I together in Glee… it'd be perfect."

"You wouldn't even have to do it forever," Shelby throws in. "I'm sure that if you'd win at Sectionals, there'd be one or two kids who'd think about joining as well. Victory makes things attractive."

"And people," murmurs Santana.

She's right. Victory _does_ make people more attractive—fame does too—but it's not the good kind of attractive when it comes to people.

"What I'm saying is; you should consider joining for a few months—maybe the rest of the schoolyear—until there're some new members. It would be something else than Cheerios for a change."

Santana leans back in her chair. "I don't know about this. My whole week is already packed with extra Cheerio practice—and it's no secret that Coach hates Glee club. She'd probably just throw me off the team."

"No, she wouldn't," Rachel shakes her head. "You're her _co-captain_ , San, you're one of the best on that squad."

"That doesn't mean I'm not replaceable."

"But it's an effort to find another one as talented as you and whip them into shape," Shelby folds her hands. "She won't throw you off the team because it would mean more work for her. Trust me, I know the way that woman thinks."

Santana smirks. "Because you think the same way?"

"Oh, shut it."

Rachel snorts quietly and, clearing her throat, she says, "Just… think about it, San, please. For me."

And the way that Santana rolls her eyes with a small smile on her face tells Shelby that her oldest daughter doesn't even have to think about it anymore. Not when her sister is staring at her from huge puppy eyes, blinking innocently.

Just before Shelby sends her daughters off so they won't miss the bus, she tells them about her rehearsal schedule (rehearsals till 3:40 p.m. on Mondays; rehearsals till 6 p.m. on Tuesdays and Fridays) and lets them have their small (alleged) victory—alleged because all they think about is the hours that they will have the house to themselves, watching crappy reality TV shows and listening to music, and not the cooking and cleaning that comes along with it.

She lingers on in the doorway and watches as Rachel skips down the road with Santana trotting behind her, trying to listen to the few words they exchange.

"Should I stop by at the mall to get some stuff for our makeovers this afternoon? Or should I let Kurt arrange everything?"

"I don't know, Rachel," Santana sounds incredibly annoyed. "Geez, can you stop skipping please? Your enthusiasm is getting on my nerves."

Shelby doesn't hear Rachel's answer—the girls are too far away—and a smile forms on her lips. She missed Rachel's skipping, actually. She used to do it so often but lately, her steps always had a heaviness about them, something that was pulling her down.

She's happy to see that her youngest finally found a friend—she deserves it more than any of those other kids at McKinley, Shelby is sure of that.

* * *

"…Six, seven eight. Step right, hip, hip, and twirl, and one, two, three- no, no, no. Stop," Shelby gestures at the young man backstage to turn off the music. "Girls, what are you _doing_? This isn't Mamma Mia's Dancing Queen—you can't just jump around, hoping it'll look okay. _God_."

She runs a hand over her forehead. "Really, it's not that hard. It's eight beats only the shoulders going on, then the right foot to the left and out on the pickup, one circle with your hips _clockwise_ , then Giselle and Andrea turn _anti-clockwise_ on the _first beat_ , then you all go four steps to the right. I don't see what the problem is."

The girls look at each other with partly exhausted and partly annoyed expressions.

"Well," says Giselle hesitantly. "Without the _ha's_ it's kinda hard to count."

Shelby rolls her eyes. "Seriously? The _ha's_ are all on the offbeats, counting that is ten times harder than this choreography."

She looks at the notes she's jotted down during rehearsals. None of them are overly nice or positive.

"Perhaps we should cut this short right now."

"The song?!"

"No, dummy, the rehearsal," Giselle rolls her eyes.

Shelby just arches an eyebrow at her. She looks over her notes once more and then raises her eyes to look at the girls in front of her. They look exhausted and it's already 3:20 and Shelby didn't sleep more than six hours last night—which, apparently, is part of the new normal—so perhaps, she should really have some mercy—on them _and_ on herself.

"Alright," she sighs. "Go home."

She watches them as they deflate and rush off the stage to gather their stuff from the bleachers. "But I want those shoulders in sync tomorrow, do you hear me?"

"'Course, Mrs Corcoran."

"See you tomorrow, Coach."

They leave quickly, desperate to get out of the stuffy auditorium. Shelby stuffs her papers and folders into her bag and takes her coffee from the desk. It's cold by now and she sighs in frustration as she tosses it into the garbage bin next to the door.

"Mrs Corcoran?"

She whirls around. "God, Jesse, you've _got_ to stop sneaking up on me like this!"

Her fist is pressed against her breastbone and she's clutching the handle of her bag harder in an attempt to calm herself.

"Sorry, Coach," the boy smirks. "Do you have a minute?"

Shelby knits her brows. "Sure."

Jesse's always been kinda special to her. He's a lot like her teenage self; a lot like Rachel.

"So… since you gave me the solo—thanks by the way—I was thinking that I could need some extra rehearsals. I mean, it's not that I don't think I couldn't do it without them but… I'd feel a little more secure, you know, with the high notes and stuff."

Shelby nods slowly. "It _is_ a very challenging song indeed. But you can do it, Jesse."

He shifts, almost nervously so—which is odd, really, because Jesse St James is never nervous. Not really.

"Yeah well," he looks down at his hands for a second. "I was wondering if you could give me some extra vocal lessons."

Now _that_ is something, she did not expect at all. She tries not to let her surprise show but the way her jaw slacks probably thwarts her plans. "Vocal lessons? From me?"

"Of course, from you," Jesse frowns. "You're a Tony Award winning actress, Mrs Corcoran. Who better to get vocal lessons from than you?"

"Um… how about an actual, trained vocal coach?" she wants to say but keeps her mouth shut. It's sweet to see Jesse St Arrogant-James bow his head to her like this—to praise her like this. It's sweet of him to ask her.

"Just like… maybe once or twice a week? I could even come to yours if that'd make it easier for you! And I'd pay you. Not much, of course—working as the local Dunkin Donut's mascot doesn't earn that much money—but I _could_ do it."

His voice is cracking slightly, that's how fast he's speaking. His cheeks are tinted in a vague shade of red and Shelby's smile is one of genuine amusement.

"I'll see if I can squeeze an hour or two in somewhere," she says eventually.

Jesse's shoulders slump in relief. "Thanks, Mrs Corcoran."

"There's nothing to thank me for," Shelby shakes her head. "Now, don't you have places to be?"

"Places to be?"

Shelby wriggles her brows. "I'm talking about Andrea. Didn't you want to take her out or something?"

Jesse's shoulders slump _even more_. Uh, Shelby thinks. She probably struck a nerve there.

"Andrea and Justin are kind of a thing now."

"I'm sorry, kid," she says, locking the door of the auditorium behind her. "That's just how it is, sometimes."

For a moment, it's completely quiet, apart from Shelby's jingling keys.

Then, Jesse says, "I know. Was that way with my parents."

She pauses. "What?"

"Well, you know, they… they became a thing with other people. I'm kinda used to it by now."

Oh God. Oh, dear God.

"That's why I'm always here, you know, practicing and stuff. I like it better doing things and working on my skills and developing my talents than travelling back and forth between places. So, I'm free whenever you are. Just not when I have ballet or jazz or tap dance. Or acting classes or piano lessons. You know, that's the one good thing about divorced parents; their constant guilt trip is getting me whatever the hell I want."

Shelby feels her blood run cold.

"Are you okay, Coach?"

No, not at all.

"You look kinda pale."

And then suddenly, something seems to get on Jesse's mind, and he recoils, guilt written all over his face. And perhaps a small little bit of shame.

Shelby shakes her head, trying to shake off the sudden panic that has overtaken her mind. "I-I'm alright, Jesse."

She turns around. "I'll look at my calendar at home and see if I can squeeze in some lessons. I'll email you as soon as I've figured something out, alright?"

She isn't sure if he can hear the slight tremor in her voice, but she certainly hopes he doesn't.

"That's awesome, Coach, thanks again."

They turn away from each other, ready to head in opposing directions when something makes Shelby pause once more.

"Hey, Jesse. If I may ask; how old were you when your parents got divorced?"

"Seven."

Shelby averts her eyes. "I'm very sorry."

She can't even begin to imagine how horrible and confusing that must've been to him.

"Oh, it's alright," Jesse says, though he sounds a little glum. "I've come to accept it."

She shakes her head. "No child should have to accept something like that."

She doesn't say goodbye when she leaves.


	14. Driving Me Crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter title is the same-titled song by Phil Collins)   
> reviews? pretty pls?   
> stay safe xo

** Chapter 14  
** **Driving Me Crazy**

**Rachel.**

"If someone told you something that you could never tell anyone else—just hypothetically, of course—do you think you'd be able to keep it a secret?"

We're sitting in Kurt's room with Celine Dion playing softly in the background. Kurt is flicking through this month's Vogue for some inspiration for our next makeover. He's decided that there will be another and I didn't object—it was fun, and it kept my mind off other things. At least for a while. 

After school, we made a trip to the mall together because Kurt doesn't really have things that could fit me, and he wasn't sure if any of his shoes were my size. So, we drove to the mall and went into a thousand different stores that I didn't even know existed in Lima, and I had to try on tons of different outfits and shoes until we finally took our time to eat lunch at Taco Bell to boost our energy before storming into the next hundreds of stores. We spent almost two and a half hours at the mall—though I thought it was much more—before we eventually took the bus home, occupying two additional seats for our shopping bags. 

At home, I let Kurt transform me into whatever he liked. We painted my nails, I tried the three outfits I'd bought once again until Kurt decided which one, I should wear and then we did my hair and makeup together. Kurt, while seemingly preoccupied with giving me a makeover, actually managed to give himself a makeover in that same time as well. To say that I'm impressed doesn't quite cover it. 

And now, I'm sitting on the chair of Kurt's desk, looking through Vocal Adrenaline's Facebook page and Kurt is flicking through his Vogue magazine. Or, _was_ flicking through his Vogue magazine because now, he raises his head and closes the paper, one finger caught between the pages, so he won't forget what he's been reading. His eyes are sparkling with curiosity. 

"I could absolutely keep it a secret," says Kurt determinedly. He sits up. "If someone told me—just hypothetically—that it was really important not to tell anyone, then I wouldn't. That would just be mean. And also, that'd probably be nobody else's business anyway, right?"

I nod slowly.

In the top right corner of the desktop, a message flashes up. 

_Vocal Adrenaline – Carmel High is hosting a new event_

It's a momentary distraction—just the thing I need right now. With a few clicks, I'm back on Vocal Adrenaline's page. 

"They're hosting a charity event for orphans."

Kurt arches an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah," I shake my head in confusion. "Mom didn't tell me about this. But, hey, we always try to keep Glee and work and everything away from the dinner table and stuff. We _are_ competition, after all."

For a moment, I can feel Kurt's piercing look on my back, and I know, before he utters the words, what he's going to say.

"But… that's not the—hypothetical—secret, right?"

Slowly—hesitantly—I shake my head. 

"So," Kurt shifts on the bed, closer to me. "What is it?"

I turn away from the laptop and, wringing my hands in my lap, I say, "My dad cheated on my mom."

There it is; short and sweet. 

"For three years."

Kurt's jaw slacks open. "W-w-what? Your dad… but your mom is- and then why would he…? Did he really, like, _cheat_ on her? Like, full-on cheating?"

"He really did. And it's not just some unimportant affair or anything—he actually told my mom he doesn't love her anymore. My mom, I mean."

"He doesn't love your mom anymore?" Kurt gasps. "But your mom is _Shelby Corcoran_."

I snort quietly. "That's the problem."

With his eyes still widened, Kurt closes the Vogue magazine and puts it back on its place in his nightstand. He sits up on his bed, folding his hands in his lap. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It's my father who says that, not me. Obviously not me—I love my mom."

Kurt beckons me over to his bed and, slowly, I stand up and cross over to sit down in front of him. He's looking me deep into the eyes with that certain look of his. It's this understanding, pitiful _I 'm-here-for-you_ look, and my lower lip starts trembling at the sight of it. 

"So, how is everything going?" he asks carefully. 

I lower my eyes. "It's- it's getting there, you know. Mom had some pretty rough days and we were all kind of falling apart but now…"

I stop, considering what to say. 

_But now…_ well, what about _now_? Everything's still so uncertain; neither of us knows what's going to happen next. Or well, logically, we know what comes next, but we don't really think of that yet. I think it would only send my mother back into her state of fighting with herself while staring at a glass of wine. 

"We're patching ourselves up," I eventually say. "But it's not ideal."

Kurt shakes his head. "I can't imagine how it could be. I mean… when my mom died, she was gone too, from one moment to the other. But she didn't do that on purpose, you know what I mean? For some time, I was really angry at her because she left but, in the end, it's not her fault. She didn't _want_ to leave; she didn't want to hurt us…"

His voice trails off, lingering in the air between us. It's strangely comforting to me. 

"But Dad _chose_ to leave," I whisper. "He chose to cheat on Mom, and he chose to leave the house. He absolutely knew what he was doing, and he still left."

Slowly, almost hesitantly so, Kurt reaches out to take my hand. Our friendship is still fairly new; our bond isn't yet what it could've been like, had we found a liking to each other earlier on. But Kurt understands this—he understands the anger and the pain. Although his situation was (and is) different. 

"How did you find out about it?" he asks carefully. 

I sigh. "Well, basically, I came home early from my dance lesson and my mom was just yelling at my dad in her office. Mom and Dad didn't know Santana and I were there. We were both supposed to still be up and about."

"Oh, so it was the 'not meant for the kids to hear this' kind of talk?" Kurt raises one eyebrow. 

I shrug defeatedly. "It was the 'Mom cries and yells' kind of talk. It was so awful."

Kurt gently squeezes my hand. He probably doesn't know that kind of talk; his mother died before either of his parents even had the chance to cheat on each other. 

"So, how is it at home? Does it feel weird to know that he won't come home in the evening?"

I shift a little and tuck a foot underneath my leg. "No, actually it doesn't feel weird at all. I'm kind of relieved that he's not there; I really can't stand him at the moment. He cheated on Mom—on our whole family—If you think about it—for three years and has the balls to blame our mom for it. I just think that if he were to come home right now, either Santana or I would kill him, and Mom would probably just faint on the spot."

"Oh, cut your mom some slack, Rach," Kurt frowns. "She's not all that fragile. I mean, have you met her? She's strength personified; she's tough and she's stubborn; she's not going to cave in because of a man."

I can't help the small smile that curls the corners of my lips upwards. _Rach_. I like it when he says that—it sounds refreshingly casual. 

"I don't think you have to worry about her like that," he continues. "You seemed awfully distracted lately, that's what's bothering you, right? You're always worrying about her."

My head whips up in surprise. He's right. But am I that obvious?

"Well, she did have a breakdown last week."

"But that was, as you said, last week," Kurt sits himself up on his feet, crouching in front of me. "And she pulled herself together and now she's back in her full Coach-Corcoran glory. I don't even know her that well, Rach, but I can tell you that she's not going to break down just like that again."

He pats my hand gently, and we share a small smile. It feels awfully good to hear those words; my mom is not fragile. She'll get through this, and we'll get through this, and we'll be stronger than before. 

"And what about you?" Kurt asks. "Do you, like, miss him?"

I knit my brows together. "I- well, you know, as I said, I can't really stand him right now; he cheated on Mom and he broke her heart and he kept a secret for three years and just… he played us, you know, and I hate him for that. But at the same time, I- I do kind of miss him. The old him, I mean, not the one that lied to us. I hate him but- but he's still my dad, right?" I take a deep breath. "I don't really want to miss him because what he did is so awful and he really hurt all of us, but I just can't help it."

Kurt tilts his head to one side. "I think that's absolutely normal. I mean, for a while, I really hated my mom for leaving. I was so angry all the time but then again, she was my mom and I loved her so much and- and she was always there for me before she left, you know."

"He was there for me too," I lower my eyes to my fingers. "But leaving us was his choice."

"Did he really choose to leave you, though?"

"What do you mean?"

Kurt shifts. "Well, I mean, he didn't really choose to leave _you_ , right? He chose to leave your mom because he somehow doesn't love her anymore. So, perhaps he stuck around for those three years because he didn't want to leave his family."

"But he could've had his family without all this drama," I argue. "Or, let's say with _less drama_. He and Mom have known each other for almost 20 years now; if he'd told her right away, maybe they could've been friends afterwards. It would've been easier for all of us and we could all celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah and New Year's Eve and everything together but- but now, he's hurt Mom so much and I really don't want to spend any of those holidays with just one of my parents, you know."

"Perhaps you'll be able to celebrate together one day," Kurt says. "Not this year, of course, but perhaps next year."

I stare at my fingers—those that are fisted in my lap, not those that Kurt is absentmindedly playing with. I can't even imagine what Christmas will be like this year. And I can't imagine how it would be next year if Dad was going to come. 

"It'll get better. It can only get better, right? If you hit rock bottom, it can't go any lower, so… you'll get through this."

The smile on my lips is weak, but at least it's there. Kurt is right; after you hit rock bottom, it can only get better. But then again, have I already hit rock bottom? Wasn't it my mom who hit rock bottom, not me? 

"You could need some distraction," Kurt suddenly says. "There's going to be a party at Mark's this Friday. Finn's invited, so I'm kind of invited too and I'm sure I could bring a friend."

My head whips up. 

"You- a-are you inviting me to a party?" 

"Of course, Diva. What did you think I was doing; telling you about a party just to rub it in your face?"

I recoil, my eyes widened with surprise. "You actually think that Mark-person would let me come? Who is that anyway?"

"He's one of the football players, though I have no idea what position or whatever he plays; I'm really not into sports," Kurt grins. "And I'm pretty sure he'd let you come. He's a pretty decent guy, you know."

I smile at Kurt. He really just invited me to a party—I've never been invited to anything like that. But- my face falls. 

"Kurt, Mom's never ever going to let me come. I'm turning _fifteen_ this month and she doesn't want us to drink and-"

"So what? You just don't tell her. That's how it works, Rachel; you don't ask—of course, she'd say no. Every mother says no if her 14-year-old asks her if she can go to a party," he rolls his eyes. "You just say we're going to have a sleepover at mine and she'll never find out about this. You could use the distraction and I- I really don't wanna go alone, you know. You don't even have to drink if you don't want to—I'm not sure if I will either. Just come and… have some fun."

I look at my fingers. A party does sound like fun, but what if something goes wrong? What if some neighbour calls the cops and we all get arrested? Then the police would drive me home and my mom- God, I don't even want to think about what she'd do to me. 

"I-I'll think about it, okay?" I say quietly, and when I raise my head, Kurt is grinning at me. 

"Awesome," he lets go of my hand and leans over to get the Vogue magazine out of his nightstand. "Now, let's look at some of these new outfits in there, I'm pretty sure you could use some fashion advice."

And just like that, the afternoon flies by in a blur and soon enough, Kurt's stepmother Carole is driving me home. We don't talk much, but she does say that she'd love to have me over again sometime and I'm beaming when I step out of the car. 

"Thank you so much for giving me a ride, Mrs Hudson-Hummel."

She smiles at me. "Carole is fine, Rachel. And there's nothing to thank me for."

Saying goodbye to each other, Carole starts the engine, and I turn around to open the front door. I don't even try to wipe the huge smile off my face; I've had the best day in weeks, and I don't want to hide it. Not in the least. 

Santana is sitting at the kitchen table as I enter the house. One knee drawn close to her chest, she looks at something in her phone while munching on some cashew nuts. 

"Hey there, Shorty," she calls with a smile. "How was your day?"

I carry my bags with me into the kitchen and slump down in the chair beside my sister. "Awesome. Kurt and I went to the mall and then we gave each other makeovers."

Santana turns off her phone. "You went to the mall? What did you buy?"

She leans over to peek into the shopping bags that I placed next to me and pulls out some trousers I bought. 

"Uh, these are great," she gestures at me to stand up and holds the trousers against me. "You have to wear jeans like this more often, they look great on you."

She drops them on the table and looks into the bag once more. "How much did you spend?"

"Around $150."

"Well, I guess that's okay," Santana shrugs. "Since you never go shopping."

I fold the clothes and put them back into the bags. "What's for dinner?"

"I don't know, Mom's kinda busy right now."

"Wanna help me make some salad?"

Santana tilts her head to one side. "I'll cut the tomatoes and stuff and wash the salad; you make the dressing."

For a few minutes, we work in complete silence, though I do think that I hear the piano being played upstairs from time to time. I haven't heard Mom play in almost a month; it's good to know she's doing it again. 

"I told Quinn today."

My head whips up. "You did?"

"Yeah," Santana nods. "We had a free period before Cheerio practice and we went to Quinn's and- well, I figured you were right, so I told her."

"What did she say?"

Santana shrugs. "Not that much. She just- she understands, you know. She's sorry that it happened, and she said she didn't expect it at all with our parents. She kind of always thought we were the perfect family." 

I purse my lips. Perfect family indeed. 

"I told Kurt."

"What?" Santana puts down her knife. "You- why?"

I shift from one leg to the other. "I just- I wanted to tell him. I wanted someone to understand who's not in the family, you know."

"But you already told that St James-guy!"

I cross my arms in front of me. "Yeah but it's not like I see him every day, let alone talk to him."

"You can't just go off and tell everyone, Rachel!"

"Why are you so upset about this?!" I slam the spoon down on the kitchen counter. "It's just Kurt, okay?"

Santana snorts. "Yes, exactly! It's _Kurt_ , Rachel. One of the biggest gossips at school. God, it's going to be out there in a matter of hours."

"No, it isn't! I trust Kurt, he's my friend, we-"

"It's the first time you even met with him out of school, Rachel! He's hardly your friend if he ignored you for months."

"He didn't ignore me," I hiss. "It just never crossed our minds that we might get along well."

Santana shakes her head. "No, it never crossed _his_ mind because he had Mercedes. He's just replacing you until they get along again!"

My face falls. "What?"

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, cross my arms only to let them fall to my sides again. I clench my fists. "I finally get a friend—someone who likes me not because they have to because they're family but because they actually like who I am—and you're telling me I'm only being used as a replacement?! Is that really what you think? Do you really think I'm not cool and not likeable enough for someone to just want to be my friend?! Because I'm not as cool as you? Because I get slushied and you don't and who wants to be friends with a loser!? Because you're freaking popular and I'm not!? Thanks, Santana!"

Santana recoils. "What? No, of course, I don't think that. But- but it seems that way, Rachel. Kurt is fighting with Mercedes and suddenly he wants to be friends with you. Doesn't that seem weird to you?"

My face is pinched into a scowl.

"No, it doesn't!" I snap. "Kurt likes me, okay? He likes me and he wants to be my friend! It's not a scheme!"

"I didn't say that it was, I just-"

"Yes, you did," I cut her off. "You think he's going to abandon me as soon as he's not fighting with Mercedes anymore. But he's my friend! He wouldn't do that."

Santana runs her fingers through her hair. "You are hanging out for a week now, Rachel! That's not a friendship!"

"Why are you trying to ruin this for me?!" I slam the fork that I was mixing the dressing with into the sink. "Why aren't you happy for me?!"

Santana lets out a dry laugh. "Because you told him, Rachel! You told him and you don't know if you can trust him!"

"So what?! You told Quinn!"

"But that's different; I'm friends with Quinn since Junior High." 

"And Quinn is the captain of the Cheerios! She practically rules this school! She talks to everyone; she has tons of friends and she never keeps a secret!" 

"Yes, she keeps a secret when it's important!"

I purse my lips. "So, the story about Jackie Olsen's surgery—that wasn't important?"

"It didn't concern her friends!" snaps Santana. 

"So, that's what makes things important?! Great moral compass!" I shake my head. "Kurt would even keep a secret if it concerned Karofsky."

"Because Karofsky would kill him if he didn't."

"No, because Kurt is a trustworthy person!"

Santana crosses her arms in front of her. "I just- why the hell would you tell him?!"

"Because I want to talk to someone about this."

"You have me!" 

I shake my head. "But you are just as biased as I am, Santana! You are just as much involved. I want to talk to someone who isn't."

"Then talk to someone who doesn't tell the whole world afterwards! Talk to Brittany-"

"But she's your friend, Santana!" I yank my fingers through my hair. "I don't want to talk to _your friends_ about this, I want to talk to my friends!"

"Rachel, you don't have any friends!"

It feels like a punch in my face. My jaw slacks open and tears are welling up in my eyes. 

I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat just seems to grow bigger. 

"Wow," I croak. "Thanks, Santana."

Santana recoils. "Rachel, I-"

"Just shut up! You're such a bitch, Santana, you-"

"What is going on here?!" 

Mom is standing in the doorway, hands placed firmly on her hips. Her mouth is pinched into a thin line, and one eyebrow is arched. 

"Santana told Quinn."

"Wha-?" Santana's eyes widen. "Rachel told Kurt!"

I whirl around. "She told Brittany!"

Mom takes two steps into the kitchen. "What-?"

"Rachel told that St James-kid!"

My mouth snaps shut. Mom turns around to face me, her expression unreadable. "Is that true, Rachel?" 

I take a step back. "I-I-I didn't plan on telling him, okay? I just- he turned up last Monday and I- I didn't outright tell him, I just- he-"

For a second, it's completely quiet. 

Mom sighs. "You told- why would you tell Jesse?" 

"And why would she tell Kurt?" Santana crosses her arms in front of her. 

She looks sickeningly triumphant, and it's making me furious. 

"And why don't _you_ just shut up?!" 

"Rachel!"

"No, seriously," I clench my fists. "Why can't you just keep your mouth shut for a second?! Don't make me look like the only bad guy; you told Brittany and you told Quinn. You're not innocent."

"I told people that I've known for _years_! You told the school's gossip and _Mom's student_. Like, how stupid can you be?" 

"Oh, _I'm_ stupid? How about-"

"ENOUGH!" 

Mom slams her hands onto the kitchen table, and her glare is so intense that I feel shivers run down my spine. 

"That's enough," she gestures at the empty chairs around the kitchen table. "Sit down. I said _sit down_ , Santana Corcoran!"

She turns around. "And if I hear so much as a word from your lips, you're going to regret it for the rest of your lives, am I making myself clear?"

She doesn't give us time to respond though but heads out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. 

"Jesse St James, come downstairs _now_!"

My jaw slacks open. "Wha-?"

And there he comes; walks out of my mother's office like it's the most ordinary thing in the world. He seems only slightly scared as he walks down the stairs at a leisurely pace that's infuriating to Mom when Santana and I do it. But she doesn't seem bothered when Jesse does it. 

"Why is St Jerk here?"

"Santana!" Mom whirls around to glare at my sister. "What's gotten into you lately?"

Jesse meanwhile takes a step into the kitchen and smiles at me. "Hey Rachel."

Then, he turns back to my mother. "What's the matter, Mrs C?"

Santana snorts, and Mom glares at her. Then, she turns to her student. "I get that my daughter told you something she wasn't meant to tell you?"

 _Now_ Jesse recoils. He pales a little. "Um…"

"I hope I won't have to check on you, so you don't tell anyone about this," Mom raises an eyebrow at him. "And I also hope I won't have to throw you off the team so shortly before Sectionals because you let something slip."

Jesse swallows hard. "Of course not, Coach. You can count on me."

"Good for you," Mom nods her head. "I want you to wait in my office until I come back—work on bar 112 to 123, okay?"

She takes hold of his shoulders, turns him around and sends him off. Then, she turns back to us, and her contented face turns into a scowl. 

"What are you both thinking?" she sinks down in the chair to our opposite. "Aren't you supposed to have each other's backs? Aren't you supposed to look after each other, other than being mean and yelling and being a snitch?"

Santana raises an eyebrow. "Are you encouraging us to lie to you?"

"No, I'm not, and you know very well that I'm not, Santana. I'm talking about standing up for each other and not going after each other. When you confide something to each other, you don't go off and tell your mother, isn't that the number one sibling rule?" 

I scoff. "I didn't know there were rules for this."

Mom shakes her head. "I can't believe you. Both of you."

She doesn't even seem all that angry about the fact that we told other people. No, it's that we told on each other that concerns her. And I can't help but wonder if that's just how mothers in general think—about the connection between their children before they think about anything else—or if it's just my mom in particular and even more so in this particular situation. Perhaps she's afraid that Santana and I are going to fall out with each other over this… separation. And right now, I can't even say for sure that's not going to happen. And it's making me feel awful. 

"Of course, I don't like it when you keep something from me—and if you disobey my orders—but I know those things have happened and they will happen again. And it's absolutely okay—or do you think Nana knows all the things Amy and I did when we were young?"

She arches an eyebrow at us, and I squirm uncomfortably. I hate it when my mother looks at me like this; it makes me feel so… guilty. 

"Of course, she doesn't," Mom shakes her head. "And I'm pretty sure she doesn't even want to know half of that things."

Santana crosses her arms more tightly, breathing in and turning her head away to stare out of the windows. She's only faking the uninterest though, I know. 

"I don't know what's going on between the two of you right now," Mom leans forwards and folds her hands in the middle of the table. "But I'm guessing it's just a very hard situation for the two of you. Something's happened that can't really be blamed on anyone" -very, _very_ debatable statement- "And I think you're just trying to handle it; you're trying to blame someone and it just so happens to be that siblings can get on each other's nerves from time to time" -both Santana and I scoff at that- "and you're turning on each other to blame _someone_."

Mom looks at us from narrowed eyes as if searching for confirmation in our expressions. "That's not the right way to deal with it."

"Ha, but the 48-hours-breakdown is," I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. I know not to tip my mother off right now; it wouldn't end well. 

"Other than that," Mom sighs. "I don't think I was being clear enough when I said not to tell anyone."

She leans back into her chair. "Girls, I wasn't talking about close friends, alright? I know how hard this is on you and who would I be to forbid you from talking to someone about it? This is all so new to all of us and, of course, you'd want to talk to someone who isn't family and ultimately involved. But I _was_ talking about people you don't know how trustworthy they are such as _my students_ who show up at our house uninvited, Rachel." 

I look down at my lap. "I-I didn't plan on telling him, Mom, I'm sorry. It just sort of happened." 

Mom sighs deeply. She reaches out to pat my hand. "Honey, it's alright. Jesse won't tell anyone and that's what all of this is about, after all. I don't want the word to spread to the press—this is a private... affair" -she chokes almost unnoticeably on the word and her fingers stop tapping against the tabletop for a second- "and I don't want to have to deal with all the questions." 

Santana sits up straight. "Wait, so you're not angry?" 

"No, I'm not angry about you telling your friends," Mom shakes her head. "What I _am_ angry about is that you were yelling at each other in the kitchen."

"Well, Rachel was being stupid ag-" 

"Santana Corcoran!" Mom slams her hand down on the table. "If I hear one more insult from your lips, you can kiss your phone goodbye." 

Like a stubborn child, Santana crosses her arms in front of her. "I'm just saying, Mom! She told her new-found 'friend' Kurt and he-"

Mom raises a hand to stop her. "Who Rachel deems trustworthy enough to confide something like this to, is not up to you to decide, okay? This is none of your business."

"Yes, it is!" Santana barks. Her fists clench underneath the table, and she looks ready to jump up and lunge at our mother. "It's my business when it's going to be all over the school by tomorrow!"

I scoff. "What do you care, Santana, are you afraid your popularity is going to suffer from it?"

"Rachel, shut u-!"

"That's IT!"

In a matter of seconds, Mom is on her feet. She's towering above us, glaring down at us. "Santana, give me your phone."

My sister stares dumbfoundedly at Mom's outstretched hand for a second. "Give me your phone, _now_!"

Her glare is deathly, and even though Santana tries to stare back at her, she doesn't even last two seconds. When she hands her phone to our mother, the older one points at the door. "I want you to go into your room, both of you. Cool down, then we'll see if you'll be able to sit at one table without jumping at each other's throat."

Santana pouts. "I think I'd much rather sit on the couch and sulk."

Mom, who already started to leave the kitchen, now turns around again. Her eyes are flickering, and the chills that run through my body aren't in any way positive. 

"You're welcome to do that," Mom's voice sounds dangerous like nothing else. "But don't think you'll be able to sit straight tomorrow."

She lets her eyes wander through the kitchen, and her gaze finds the salad we've started a good ten minutes ago. She turns to me. "Rachel, finish the salad please before going upstairs."

Under her angry glare, Santana hurries out of the kitchen, and I make my way over to the kitchen counter. For a moment, Mom lingers on in the doorway, and when she turns around, I think I hear her mutter, "What has gotten into them?"

I think I'd really love to hear an answer to that as well, but Mom goes upstairs into her study again before anything else can be said. 

In the next ten minutes, I finish the salad and try to listen to the goings-on in my mom's study. Other than an occasional piano riff and some particularly loud notes that Jesse sings, I can't hear anything though, no matter how hard I try. What I do hear is the music blaring from the loudspeakers in Santana's room, and I'm pretty sure she's not going to see her phone for a while. 

Just when I make my way upstairs, the door to my mother's study opens, and Mom and Jesse step out. Jesse has his bag slung over his shoulder and in one hand, he carries a stack of sheet music. 

He runs a hand through his brown hair, smiling at me as we meet each other halfway up (and down) the stairs. "So, you survived." 

I can't help my grin. "Didn't expect me to, did you?" 

"Not really," he shakes his head. "But hey, you're tough. Vocal Adrenaline material for sure." 

"How would you know?"

Jesse shrugs. "Intuition."

Then, his lips curl into an unexpected smile. "And also, I might and might not have had a look at your MySpace page." 

For some reason, his words make me blush, and I lower my head to stare at my fingers for a second. 

"So?" I ask, almost sheepishly. "What do you think?" 

"Vocal Adrenaline material, like I said," he grins. "Though you lack my power in the lower registers." 

Behind him, my mom snorts. 

"I think I manage my lower registers just fine," I tilt my head to one side. "You seem to have trouble keeping the air from the high notes, though." 

"I think you're mixing me with your male lead right there." 

But Jesse's sheepish grin only confirms what I said. 

Mom clears her throat. "Jesse, I'm sure your father is already waiting for you."

It's her way of subtly telling him that he should go, and Jesse totally gets it. I guess he might have heard it before. 

"Be there at 3 p.m. straight on Thursday," calls Mom after him. "And don't be late."

Jesse gestures at the front door with a lopsided smile. "I guess I'll see you on Thursday, then?"

"Sure."

He hurries down the stairs, and his fast steps echo through the hallway. A muffled 'Bye' sounds, then the front door snaps shut. 

I turn around and meet Mom's arched eyebrow and knowing smile. "Jesse _is_ quite the charming guy, isn't he?"

" _Mo—om_!"


	15. Every Rose Has Its Thorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there.   
> so.. i'm pretty much still devastated about the news of Naya Rivera's death. she was such a good actress and a lovely person and i just hope that her family and friends will make it through this and get stronger.   
> leave a review if you got the time (and motivation)
> 
> (chapter title is same-titled song by Miley Cyrus)

** Chapter 15  
** **Every Rose Has Its Thorn**

**Santana.**

I don't even know _what_ it is that makes me so incredibly angry at my sister. But I do know that my mom taking my phone away makes it much, _much_ worse. 

So, as immature and pointless as it seems, I turn up the volume of my loudspeakers and let the voice of Beyoncé drown out every other sound as soon as the door closes behind me. 

Everything about this is absolutely unfair. I mean, it was Rachel, after all, who told Jesse and Kurt—people that we don't really know—and not I. It was she who disobeyed Mom and put our privacy about this situation at risk. It was she who started yelling in the kitchen. 

And yet _I_ am the one who gets punished. And for no reason at all, really. 

I slam myself into the pillows on my bed and listen to Beyoncé's voice booming through my room. 

_"When you leave, I'm beggin' you not to go."_

It's not a calming song, like, _at all_ but still, I somehow manage to find some peace in it.

But I can't shake off the anger completely. Rachel is the one who should be sent to her room right now. Rachel is the one who made a mistake. 

And now, Mom took my phone away—the only way to have contact with Noah when we're not at school or hanging out. And having contact with Noah seems more important than ever, lately. He said something just yesterday, about how I am so distant and secretive lately—and he didn't say it in a nice, complementing way. It was an accusation—and a justified one, at that. 

This is all getting too fucked up, and guess whose fault that is? Dad's. 

I'm angry at him for cheating on our mom, I'm angry at him for leaving. And I'm angry at Rachel for telling other people—who should go and mind their own damn business—and for being so naïve. 

"You turn that music off, NOW!" 

The door is flung open, and Mom stands in the doorway, seething. She stands still for exactly two seconds before marching across the room and simply pulling the plug. Beyoncé's voice dies mid-sentence and leaves a tensed silence to be filled. 

"What is going on with you?" She tilts her head to one side, and although she's still panting in anger, worry is written all over her face. 

I cross my arms and stare at the ceiling above me. "Nothing."

"Yes, there is," she shakes her head and, closing the door behind her, she walks over to my bed. "You're upset and you're angry—and that's okay, Santana—but I don't want you to take it out on Rachel."

The mattress shifts a little as Mom sits down next to me. 

"I'm angry _with Rachel_ , Mom."

She sighs. "But why, Santana? What happened is not Rachel's fault."

"It's not about blaming anyone, but she told Kurt, Mom, and Kurt is the worst gossip ever," I have to suppress the urge to pout—it's a childish notion and something that Rachel would probably do in this situation, but I'm not fourteen anymore. "I'm angry with her because she's being naïve and stup—ah!"

Mom's swat on my thigh stings and when I withdraw my leg, it's already too late.

"You do not call your sister stupid, Santana!" Mom hisses at me, squeezing my leg slightly for good measure. "I've had enough of your constant bickering; it's grating on my nerves and it needs to stop."

She shakes her head at me. "If you need someone to be angry with, be angry with your father or me. Don't be angry with Rachel. She's almost three years younger than you, sweetie, she struggles a lot with almost _everything_ right now."

"What do you mean?" I knit my brows. 

Mom withdraws slightly, the pressure on my leg lessens, and her grip gets more and more comforting. 

"You know how it is to be fourteen, Santana," she sighs. "You wake up one day and suddenly there's a whole lot of problems you have to face; pimples, your looks, your brains, your wit, _boys_ … and Rachel doesn't have a lot of friends—as you were so kind to point out to her earlier—and now there's this whole… situation. Can you imagine what it's like to go to school and have no one waiting for you at your locker?"

I squirm a little under my mother's intense glare. "Can you imagine what it's like to have _slushies_ thrown in your face _for no reason_? And then someone finally shows interest in you and wants to be your friend and you feel like you finally have someone to talk to—of course, you talk to them. Of course, you confide something to them. That's what friends do, Santana, and you know that very well—and then your sister tells you it's a scam?"

"Yeah, but Kurt isn't a trustworthy person! He's the worst gossip at McKinley and he just doesn't _do_ secrets and-"

Mom raises a hand to stop me. "And Quinn is the head cheerleader who practically rules the school. And when she needs someone to suffer or when someone gets into her way, she spreads rumours or blows secrets. She isn't a particularly trustworthy person either, Santana, but she's your friend and friends confide things to each other, and they trust each other to keep those things a secret."

"But Rachel and Kurt have been friends for, like, a week-"

"So what?" Mom interrupts me. "Don't you think a week is time enough for Rachel to figure out if she can trust him?"

She suddenly looks a little sad, if not disappointed. "Why don't you trust her with this, Santana?"

I look away from my mom. Her eyes are always so expressive—her whole body is always so expressive, and it's far too intense for me to take right now. 

"She's never really had a friend, Mom," I finally manage to say. "She doesn't _know_ how this works."

"Then you should've talked to her about it," Mom says. "Or you should've come to me and asked me to talk to her about it. But yelling at her and insulting her isn't the right way. Not to mention the fact that it's absolutely not okay and I don't like it one bit."

"She was the one who started the yelling, I only-"

"I don't care who started it, Santana," Mom raises a hand again to cut me off. "I don't care who started yelling. But you're the one that started to insult her, and I won't let that stand."

I open my mouth to say something, but Mom beats me to it. "You'll apologise to her and you'll apologise _my way_."

I turn around on my bed and prop myself up on my elbows. "Your way?"

"Yes, my way," she nods. "You're going to go upstairs and apologise for the things you've said and if she's still sulking, you're going to give her some time. And tomorrow at school, you're going to go to Mr Schuester and tell him that you want to join the Glee club."

"What? Mom, no! I-"

"I'm not finished, Santana," Mom says curtly. "Before, it was only an idea that I wanted you to think about but now, you have no choice but to join. You're saying Rachel has no friends? A big part of that problem is that Glee is considered uncool at McKinley—for whatever unjustified reason—and another part is that the Glee club is blaming her for the fact that they won't be able to compete at Sectionals because one of the members quit when she didn't get the solo and now they're one member short. So—and I won't be discussing this with you, Santana—you're going to join the Glee club and you're going to ask Brittany and Quinn to join too. It's part of your apology."

Part of my apology. I really just want to laugh in my mom's face and tell her there's no way in hell I'm ever going to join the Glee club. But my leg just recovered from Mom's stinging swat earlier, and I really don't want to feel that again. 

"Whatever," I try not to roll my eyes, but Mom still pinches my thigh slightly. 

"What was that?"

"Of course, Mom."

Mom nods at me as she stands up. "You're a very wise girl."

She crosses my room to open the door. "And Santana, I know joining Glee club is much to ask of you, but I do think that this might be good for you too. You like singing and you're an amazing dancer—just what the group needs. I think it would be a good change from cheerleading—something to clear your head without the constant pressure of _how you look_ ," she pauses. "Now go and talk to your sister. Be downstairs in half an hour so we can have dinner."

Her eyes are piercing into my back as I slowly haul myself upright and, accompanied by a small groan, make my way out of the room. Mom follows after me, though she keeps her distance and stops at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Don't yell," Mom instructs sternly. "Don't call her stupid or anything else. If I hear about it—and I _will_ hear about it, Santana—you're not going to see your phone for the next month."

I don't dare to roll my eyes—my mom seems to be able to see through the back of people's heads from time to time, and I bet she can run up the stairs faster than I can run away—even in her heeled boots. 

Without another word, I proceed up the stairs and turn right. The door to Rachel's room is firmly closed, and there's no noises sounding behind it. 

Slowly, I raise my hand to knock on the door. 

Rachel's voice is muffled as she grumbles something that I don't understand. But since she's not yelling at me to leave her alone, I take it as my invitation to come, and I open the door and step inside.

Rachel is sitting on her bed. She has a large, white shelf dividing her room, separating her desk and bed from her wardrobe and the elliptical that Mom and Dad gave her for her twelfth birthday to prevent her from going for a run every morning at 6:20 a.m. 

"Hi, Rach," I say quietly. 

Rachel's head whips up. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I," I pause for a second to close the door behind me. "I want to apologise."

With a sigh, Rachel falls on her back and crosses her arms in front of her. "I'm not going to forgive and forget just like that."

Her face is pinched into a faint scowl that only deepens when I sit down on the edge of the bed. 

"Okay. I just want you to know that I'm sorry, though."

She turns away from me, and her chest heaves slightly as she takes a deep breath or perhaps swallows hard. 

"I just- I'm not stupid, Santana, okay?" her voice sounds a little husky. "I know that Kurt's a gossip, but I trust him. I know him well enough to know that he won't tell anybody about something this important and I- I don't understand why you can't just trust my choices."

"I don't not trust your choices. I just- I was just worried he might tell Mercedes and-"

"But I told you that he and Mercedes aren't on good terms right now, so why should he tell her, anyway?"

I lower my head. "I don't know."

"See?" Rachel exclaims. "You don't trust me."

"Yes, I do. I just- argh, I don't know, Rachel," I run a hand through my hair. "I was just afraid the others at school might find out. And I haven't even told Noah and if he found out through someone else…"

My voice trails off and Rachel slowly props herself up on her elbows to look at me. "You haven't told Noah?" 

I shake my head. 

"Why not?"

"I don't know, I just- Mom said we shouldn't tell anyone, and I didn't really want to talk to him about it, you know. I just wanted to… forget and if he knew then we'd be talking about it too and I- I wanted to pretend everything's normal."

Rachel tilts her head to one side. "But now, Mom's fine with us telling our close friends. Perhaps you should tell him."

I look down at my fingers. Yes, perhaps, I should. Noah's been all suspicious and stuff all week, and I really don't want him to feel offended by not telling him. I want to reach for my phone in the pocket of my jeans, but then I remember that Mom took it from me. 

I sigh. "Hey, Rach, can I use your phone to call Noah?"

Rachel raises an eyebrow at me. "Mom's going to find out and then I'll lose my phone as well. Can't you use the landline?" 

I shrug. I don't really like using the landline; I always feel as though I'm being wiretapped or something. But Rachel's right; Mom _will_ find out if I use Rachel's phone and I don't want to risk that, so I simply nod. 

"Tomorrow," I start. "I'm going to go to Mr Schue and tell him that I want to join the Glee club."

Rachel's head whips up. "What? Really?"

"Yeah," I grin sheepishly. "Consider it part of my apology."

Rachel looks slightly baffled. "You're _really_ going to join New Directions? Because that means we're twelve members again and then we can compete at Sectionals and-"

"I'm going to ask Quinn and Brittany to join too," I interrupt Rachel's tirade. 

My sister's eyes glow with excitement. "You think they'll join?"

I shrug. "I don't know for sure, but you know Brittany—she's all in for anything dancing—and Quinn actually sings really good. Not as good as you, of course, but still."

The smile on Rachel's lips is huge as she scrambles out of bed. "This would be so awesome. We'd finally be able to pull of a good dance number and- oh my God, we've got to start brainstorming ideas for a setlist and-"

I manage to get a hold of Rachel's wrist to hold her back. "Slow down, Shorty, there's still enough time until Sectionals. And we don't know if I'm going to get in, so…"

"Of course, you're going to get in. Don't be ridiculous, Santana," she puts her hands on her hips in a way that seems so like our mother that I feel shivers running down my spine. "You're a great singer—your voice could use some training, but still—and you're an awesome dancer; it's just what New Directions needs, Mr Schue would be a fool if he didn't accept you."

I grin at my sister. "And then we're gonna kick Mom's ass at Sectionals."

But Rachel shakes her head. "No, we wouldn't be competing against Vocal Adrenaline until Regionals."

I shrug. "Well, then we're gonna kick her ass at Regionals—either way, we're gonna kick her ass."

Rachel lets out a quiet laugh. She falls down on her bed again with a smile. "I really hope Quinn and Brittany are going to say yes."

I really hope that too. Because I wouldn't want to have to face the weird looks by the other jocks all by myself. And if Quinn—Head Bitch in Charge—would join as well, perhaps Glee wouldn't be considered _that_ uncool anymore. 

"Rachel?"

My sister looks up at me with a raised eyebrow. "Yes?"

"What I said earlier is not true. You do have friends, Rachel," I reach out to squeeze her hand. "I'm your friend and- and Kurt's your friend, as it seems and Brittany really likes you and Quinn—well, she's Quinn and she doesn't show it that obviously, but she likes you too. Noah would absolutely love to smash Ian Asshole Darcy's face in for the slushy-attacks and" -I take a deep breath- "my point is you're not alone. You have friends. And when I said that you hadn't… I was just angry."

Rachel smiles slightly. "Thanks, Santana."

She rolls over and pulls a notebook out of her nightstand. "Now, let's think about the setlist."

Turns out 'let's think about the setlist' means that I sit on the bed and watch Rachel jot down her ideas, humming along to a few melodies of the songs she's thinking about. Her foot is bobbing to the beat of the songs, and she chews on the back of her pencil when she's deep in thought—a habit Mom's been trying to break for years. 

"Dinner's ready!" Mom shouts, and I tip against Rachel's leg to get her attention. 

"We're coming!" I shout back. 

Rachel quickly turns around to scribble one more thing into her notebook, then she takes my arm and pulls me with her.

In the kitchen, Mom's awaiting us with a small smile. 

"Everything alright again?" she asks as I sit down. 

I nod. "Everything alright again."

* * *

Mr Schuester really did look surprised when Quinn, Brittany and I approached him after our Spanish class two days later—no, not surprised. More like _disbelieving_. 

" _You_ want to join the New Directions?" he asked and put down his mug of coffee. "The three best cheerleaders in our squad want to join a Glee club?"

Quinn raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you _trying_ to talk us out of it?"

He seemed helpless for a second, a little shaken and unsure of what to say, but then he quickly shook his head and said with a small smile, "Of course not, I'm just surprised. You're going to have to audition, of course. How about you just join us in the auditorium during lunch break? The boys were going to present their assignment, but I guess that'll have to wait then."

I exchanged a quick look with Quinn and Brittany. Then I nodded. "We'll be there."

And that sentence is the reason why I currently find myself sprinting towards the auditorium, an apple and a granola bar in my left hand and Brittany and Quinn hot on my heels. We almost forgot to grab lunch at the cafeteria before making our way to the auditorium, and so, we had to turn around again and could only take the first thing we saw. Which just happens to be an apple and a granola bar. 

"How late are we?" pants Quinn as I shove the door to the hallway open with my shoulder.

"About three minutes," answers Brittany. 

We stumble into the bleacher of the auditorium, and the door falls close behind us, bringing the excited chatter of the Glee members that are currently lounging behind the teacher's desk in the rows of the seats to an abrupt halt. Eleven heads turn almost in sync to look at the three Cheerios at the door. Mr Schuester seems to have yet to make an appearance. I sigh in relief; at least we're not the only ones who are late.

"Um, what are they doing here?" asks some dark-skinned boy that I'm pretty sure I've never seen before. 

No one answers him—not even Rachel. She's too busy beaming at my two friends and me. I think I haven't seen her this happy in weeks. 

Finally, the door behind us opens once more, and Mr Schue steps inside. He smiles at us. "Ah, you're already here."

He turns to the Glee kids in the bleachers. "Guys, Quinn, Brittany and Santana are here to audition."

A confused—shocked? –murmur echoes through the auditorium, and I shift awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"For real?" asks a brown-haired girl who, I think, Rachel mentioned once or twice before—is it Irene? Ellen? 

"Yes, got a problem with that?" Quinn crosses her arms in front of her.

The Glee kids shake their heads, though they still look unsure about what to make of this whole situation. 

"Guys, guys," Mr Schue calls out as he makes his way to the teacher's desk and plants his bag on one of the empty seats beside him. "Let's not waste any more time and see what they can do. Who wants to start?"

He pulls out a notebook and a pen and looks at the three of us with narrowed eyes. For a second, his look wanders across the room to find Rachel. Then he looks back at me. 

"Let's have Brittany go first, Quinn next and Santana last," he says eventually, his eyes never leaving me. 

I'm pretty sure he's expecting an extraordinary voice like Rachel's from me; trained and supported, no breath on long notes and strength in all registers. But I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint him—I'm not even half as good as Rachel. I'm a decent singer, yes, and I'm a very good dancer, but I'm not made for the stage like Rachel is. She's born to be on Broadway, and she's born to be on stage—and I'm not. I never had the same urge as she to train my voice—I did let my mom coach me for about one or two years when I was twelve, but I didn't develop my voice much after that. 

Meanwhile, Brittany has taken her spot on the stage, and she fixes her ponytail one more time before nodding at the technician-boy to start the playback. I'm not surprised to hear the first notes of Britney Spears' _Criminal_ sound through the auditorium. Brittany has always been a huge fan of the woman—and not only because of the similarity of their names. What I am surprised about is the way she _moves_. 

I knew before this that Brittany could dance. But I didn't know she can dance like this. It's a flawless performance, great choreography and perfect execution and I can't help but wonder why Brittany isn't co-captain of the Cheerios. She'd probably deserve it more than I do. 

She sings really good. Not a Rachel-Corcoran kinda good but she hits all the notes and while her voice lacks strength in the upper register, she can easily sing some very low notes as well and—God, I sound like Mom and Rachel!

When the last notes carry out into the auditorium, everyone is already clapping. 

"That was really great, Brittany," says Mr Schue into the mic. "I guess I speak on behalf of everyone on the team when I say: Welcome to the New Directions."

Brittany flashes a smile and quickly makes her way off the stage.

"That was awesome," I tell the blonde when she reaches me, and Brittany waves a hand. 

"You're a far better singer than me."

I shrug. "Could be. But I can't dance like that."

Brittany seems to want to say something, but the music for Quinn's audition cuts her off before she can even open her mouth. It's Madonna's _Papa Don't Preach,_ but more of an acoustic version and it really suits Quinn's voice. There're no dance moves as spectacular as in Brittany's performance, but it's still great and I know Quinn got in before Mr Schue announces it through his mic. 

And then, it's my turn. Rachel gives me a thumbs up from her seat, and Brittany smiles at me. "You nervous?"

I nod. "A little. I haven't sung in front of anybody but my family in years."

"Just imagine you'd sing to people who're completely tone-deaf," Brittany squeezes my hand. "Makes you less nervous."

And I do really try to head Brittany's advice, but my legs are still feeling like jelly when I walk up the stairs and hand the technician-boy my playback. I go over the choreography in my head one more time, take a deep breath and nod at the boy to start the playback. 

I chose Amy Winehouse's _Valerie_ just because I remember Mom telling me once after I sang it with her in the car that I'd completely own that song if it weren't for Amy herself. The choreography isn't particularly hard so that it makes it easier for me to concentrate on both my singing and my dancing. When I start the slow verse—isn't it called a bridge or something? –of the song, my eyes involuntarily find Rachel's and I see my sister's broad smile. She looks… proud? In awe? I really can't tell when I'm this far away, but I feel my confidence rise with the volume of the song. The last _Valerie_ gets kinda cut off by Rachel's squeal as she jumps to her feet and claps. In fact, everyone claps, and Brittany even bounces a little with happiness. 

The loudspeakers crack a little as Mr Schue leans forwards to speak into the mic. "Not that I would've expected any less from you, Santana, but this was incredible."

I lower my eyes a little, trying not to blush as I make my way offstage. 

"Mr Schue was completely downplaying this," Rachel gushes. "You were awesome!"

She pulls me into a tight hug, and when she steps back, her cheeks are flushed red. "We should absolutely consider this song at Sectionals."

"You'd give _your_ solo away?" exclaims Finn in disbelief and Rachel shrugs. 

"Santana certainly deserves it," she says and squeezes my hand. "And I think Sectionals are a perfect opportunity to show off talent other than mine and-"

"Slow down, slow down," Mr Schue interrupts, both hands raised. "Who's saying anything about Sectionals?"

And he's met with fourteen confused looks. 

"Um… well, Mr Schue, now that we have enough members again," Rachel says slowly. "Shouldn't we compete?"

"It's only three and a half weeks away, I don't think we'll be able to compete by then."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, our mom has just finished Vocal Adrenaline's setlist a few days ago, so we're not that far behind," I turn to meet Rachel's eyes. "And Rachel was brainstorming some ideas just yesterday, so perhaps we could use some of that."

The Glee members nod their heads approvingly, and I raise my eyes to look at Mr Schue again. "Perhaps we could meet tomorrow during lunch break again and go over some ideas?"

Mr Schue hesitantly nods. "Why not? Let's meet in the choir room, though, it's much more comfortable."

So, it is agreed that the New Directions—now, consisting of fourteen members in total—will meet up again the next day and I say goodbye to Quinn and Brittany who both want to catch the early bus. Rachel waits for me at the door of the auditorium, beaming at me as she takes my arm. 

"You're the best sister in the entire world, did you know that?" she says, skipping down the hallway and practically dragging me with her. "And you sang beautifully."

I squeeze Rachel's hand as a thank you. "Do you want to go get an ice cream before we head home?"

"Ice cream?" Rachel scrunches up her nose. "Isn't it a little cold for ice cream?"

"Well, then perhaps a crêpe?"

My sister nods enthusiastically. "That sounds much better, I haven't had a crêpe since the summer holidays."

We turn the corner into the hallway with the lockers. The warning bell is going to ring any minute now and the students that still have afternoon classes are hurrying to get their books out of their lockers. A few metres away to my right, I spot Pete and Jackson leaning against the wall. They're both Cheerios, and they do some great throws and jumps, and I wave at them as we near them. There's an unreadable expression on Pete's face that confuses me for about a second. Then, they push away from the wall, and I can barely register their movements before I get hit by a wall of cold. 

The slushy is literally _everywhere,_ and it _stings_. The chunks of ice slip down the front of my Cheerio uniform, dripping down onto the floor, and I need a second to catch my breath and wipe the slushy away from my eyes. 

"What the fuck?!" I screech. "Who do you think you are?!"

I free myself from Rachel's grip because she's trying to hold me back and _I don't want to be held back_.

"You've joined the Glee club," says Jackson with a twisted grin. "You're at the bottom now."

With a single movement, I grab him by the collar and pull him down to look him straight into the eyes. Pete—the biggest coward the world has ever seen—is already backing away from me. 

"And if _you_ throw slushies _at anyone_ ever again," I spit into his face. "I will personally make sure you're going to be _at the bottom of the ocean_!"

I push him away from me, and he stumbles backwards. 

"Fuck off, Jackson!" I shout, waving my hands at him. "Or I'll stick _you_ into the damn slushy machine and see what colour you create!"

I'm panting hard when I turn around to face Rachel. I can hear Jackson and Pete's steps hurrying down the hallway, and it's only then that I really start to feel the cold of the slushy against my skin. 

Rachel, covered in a blue slushy herself, looks at me from wide eyes, filled with tears. 

"Oh my God," she whispers quietly. "Santana, I'm so sorry, I-"

"What are you sorry for?" I bark, pulling her with me towards our lockers. "For walking down the hallway with me? You're not the one who should be sorry, Rachel!" 

I hurry to open my locker and retrieve my sports bag. "Come on, we gotta go change. I don't want to get sick."

Rachel stumbles after me in silence. She has barely enough time to get her extra set of clothing out of her locker, but she somehow manages to keep up with me. 

The warning bell has already rung by now, and the hallways are completely deserted. Still, I keep my head held up high—even though I feel the purple slushy starting to stick to my skin and my hair. 

The door to the girls' lavatory falls close behind us, and finally, I turn around to look at Rachel again. Her chin is quivering with the effort not to cry and her whole body trembles. 

"Are you okay?" I ask softly—, and it's really a dumb question to ask—and Rachel actually has the nerve to nod at first, before she looks down at her feet and shakes her head. Tears are spilling down from her eyes, and I clench my fists in anger. 

I will make Jackson and Pete's lives a living hell from now on—that's for sure. 

"I really would've loved to have crêpes with you," Rachel cries as I fold her into my arms. 

"I really would've loved to have crêpes with you too."


End file.
